DISCLAIMER:
Pryde and Wisdom, the X-Men and Excalibur all are trademarks of Marvel Comics. DV8 and other Image characters all are trademarks of Wildstorm Studios/Image Comics. John Constantine and any other Hellblazer- and BoM- related characters all are trademarks of DC/Vertigo Comics. This story is an unauthorized work done purely for my personal enjoyment, and is not intended to infringe on any of their rights in or profits from these characters. But this story is copyright to me.

WARNING:
THERE WILL BE EXPLICIT SEX IN THIS STORY. I will mark those sections clearly in the individual section headers. If reading sex scenes would offend you, please don't read this story.

If you want to comment, send email to <luba@lubakmetyk.net>

Part 6 Trouble Squared

Kitty was moping around the guestroom, absently picking up Wisdom's scattered clothing and putting things away, pausing frequently to rub her face against his garments and let the familiar scent and feel comfort her, when Storm came bursting in through the door without bothering to knock. She rushed over to wrap her arms around the younger girl tightly, plucking a wrinkled shirt out of Kitty's hands and throwing it aside disdainfully. "Ignore those rags, Kitty. Do not disturb yourself handling his leavings, we will get rid of them for you later."

"I wasn't throwing that away, Ororo, I was just cleaning up," Kitty protested automatically. "Pete's such a slob, I have to take every chance I get just to keep things under control." She'd been so concerned about Wisdom leaving that it took her a moment to reorient on her unexpected visitor. Then she asked, a bit sharply, "What are you doing here? Did Logan send you?" Somehow, Kitty doubted that, given the other woman's hostile attitude to the Englishman since their arrival. She squirmed a bit uncomfortably as Storm kept hugging her, their difference in height leaving Kitty's head squashed against her old friend's chest.

"Betsy told us all what happened. I'm so sorry to hear he upset you so, Kitten. I was quite certain he would hurt you badly sooner or later, but I'm pleased to be proven right so rapidly. It's for the best, really, to get this disastrous liaison over with as quickly as possible. He would never have fit in with us, my Kitten, surely you must realize that by now, and now you can forget him and move on with your life and come back to us where you truly belong."

Wrenching herself roughly out of Storm's smothering embrace, Kitty stared at the regal figure before her unbelievingly. "What on earth are you talking about, Ororo?" But she had a sinking feeling in her stomach that she knew exactly what the X-men's co-leader meant, and she was in the worst possible mood to have this conversation with her old friend.

"That horrible Wisdom person leaving, of course. I should have realized he only tried to join your group for money. He must have stayed hanging around, hoping to be set up in idle comfort for the rest of his miserable life on poor Brian's massive assets. And now that he has found he will not be offered access to those funds, he has gone -- and a good riddance to bad rubbish, too. Moira was so right to distrust him, even when he had you and Kurt fooled." Storm was so pleased with the news of Wisdom's departure, so caught up in her own triumphant gloating after the others had tried so long and hard to get her to accept this mismatched and obviously doomed relationship, that she wasn't watching Kitty or her reactions very carefully.

"Is that what you really think, Ororo -- that joining Excalibur and going on all our missions is a life of idle luxury? And that Pete's been staying with me only for money? You really find it so hard to imagine he might care for me?" Kitty was furious to hear Storm belittle Wisdom's commitment to the team, remembering the many risks he'd taken already for them, but she was even more hurt by Storm belittling both Pete's feelings for her and her own ability to attract and inspire such devotion in him.

Storm misinterpreted Kitty's poorly suppressed anger as shamed denial at having been fooled and manipulated and used by a con man's practiced wiles. "You must not blame yourself too much, Kitten, for being taken in by him -- you are young, after all, and inexperienced. But, please, try to think logically for a moment. He left as soon as he found Brian was not going to give him access to the team funds, so what else can I think? Obviously money is more important to him than you are. Why else would he have left now, if he truly did care for you?"

"Maybe because it matters to him that he's still being treated as an outsider, and I sympathize with him on that, and it matters to him to be able to take care of himself, and of me too, and I admire him for that." Kitty was pacing around the room now, her hands curled into tight fists at her side as she fought the temptation to pick something up and throw it at the older woman, to see if that might succeed in breaking though her own internal, warped view of reality.

"How can you still defend him, after he has walked out on you?" Storm's light blue eyes stalked Kitty in her perambulations, a wince of disgust fleeting across her face whenever her gaze passed over any of Wisdom's habitual mess scattered all around the room, mostly clothes that stirred restlessly in the hint of a breeze wafting through the room.

"Maybe because he hasn't walked out on me, Ororo. We had a fight, is all. Pete left to cool off, but he'll be back, I'm sure of it. And I'll be waiting for him with open arms..." Kitty's voice trailed away, as she finished the rest of her response silently, to herself, '...and then, as soon as I get him back, I'll kill him with my bare hands for leaving me behind, the big stupid wanker, but that's not really any of your business, Ororo.'

"What incredible hold does that ruffian have on you, my Kitten? How has he succeeded in so brainwashing you, to make you still defend him, to make you still want to be with him instead of here with us, who love you so much more than he ever could?" Storm's tone was incredulous.

"Maybe he's just always been honest with me, Ororo. Maybe he treats me like an adult, when none of the rest of you will. And maybe I'm just tired of always being second-best. Peter told me he loved his alien healer more -- even though he only knew her for a brief time and they couldn't even speak -- and he always loved Illyana more, too -- he'd do anything for her, but not for me. And Alistair never once noticed me, he always wanted Rachel -- she was all he could see, no matter what I did. But I come first with Pete, and that matters to me."

"Just because he was your first, my poor Kitten, does not mean you are his first. Surely you cannot be gullible enough to believe him making such a claim."

Stopping her pacing, Kitty glared back, infuriated as much by Storm's condescending smile as by her words. "I'm not an idiot, Storm. I know he's been with others. But he told me I was the first one to matter, the first one that was real, and I do believe him when he says that. And I'm glad he was my first and I promise you he's going to be my last and only."

Ororo shook her head sorrowfully at Kitty's continued intransigence. "I truly hope not, Kitten. It is sad enough for me to think he was your first -- what can a crude boor like him know about love or tenderness or romance? I only pray that this mad infatuation of yours will burn itself out, and you will end up with someone who treats you as you deserve."

"Pete treats me better than I deserve, better than anyone else ever has." Kitty started pacing again; at least then she didn't have to keep staring at Ororo's self-righteous expression all the time.

"Kitten, surely it must be obvious to you by now -- it has all been a very clever act. That horrible man has been working to poison your relationship with us, your family, to draw you away from us and keep you dependent on him, certainly during this visit and quite probably ever since he decided to entrap you in his wiles."

Ororo's saccharine-smooth tone was swamped by Kitty's angry rasp, oddly reminiscent of Logan's growl despite the great difference in pitch. "That's crazy, Ororo. Pete's never been anything but supportive of me. You're the one who poisoned my relationship with the X-men, and with my real family too."

"Kitten?! What are you saying? What lies has he filled you with?" Ororo had to squint a bit now as the bright sunlight streaming in from outdoors faded, as clouds began darkening the sky outside.

Stopping next to the bedside table on Pete's side, Kitty grabbed the open bottle of whisky there and poured herself a shot of Pete's Scotch, as Ororo watched in growing horror. After throwing her head back and belting it down, she started talking in a low, vicious tone. "You let me think you all died in Dallas. You didn't care how much that hurt me. You just didn't trust me enough to let me know you were alive. Who did you think I was going to tell, anyway -- Nimrod? The Marauders? You really think I don't know that Jean messed with my parents' minds, to get them to let me join you? And probably to keep them away afterwards, so they wouldn't object to anything you X-men decided for me. Why didn't you ever tell me what Jean had done? I thought they were scared of me being a mutant and were glad to be rid of me, but it was just Jean messing with their minds. The Professor always made such a big deal out of proper ethics, but you all did just what Emma Frost would have done."

The normally impervious Storm flinched at Kitty's sudden barrage of words. "We thought it was a perfect opportunity to go underground, in secret, to protect our loved ones and strike back at our foes. We decided no one should know, that it would be best for everyone to cope with the pain of our loss rather than live with the danger of our presence." She studied Kitty's face carefully, but saw no signs of any softening at the facile justification she'd so often offered herself since that long-ago time. "And we never wished you to know what Jean had done. Needless to say, it was without our approval, and it was not Jean, Jean would not do such an unethical thing. It was the Phoenix taking her place, and losing control gradually. And it was for the best, Kitten -- if we had left you with your parents Emma would have taken you for the Hellfire Club and you would have died with her other Hellions. But how did you ever find out?"

Kitty ignored that question, just as the X-men tended to ignore her computer genius. "But the only ones you struck at *were* your loved ones, Ororo -- Kurt and me, still trying to recover from fighting the Marauders, Brian turning to drink more than ever because of mourning Betsy, Peter's parents and Illyana..." She veered away from the mention of Colossus, quickly, and picked up the other topic, while offering a fervent prayer of gratitude that Storm had not brought up Kitty belonging with him in this discussion, at least not yet. "And maybe I *would* have been better off with Emma Frost. I couldn't have been in any more danger with her than with you all against the Brood and the Marauders, but at least she's never been a hypocrite pretending to love me while hurting me for my own good."

"We never intended to hurt our loved ones, Kitten. Please, you must believe that. We just wanted to protect all of you, for your own good." Approaching with outstretched arms, the regal Storm attempted to draw the younger girl into another embrace, but Kitty jerked away again. Frowning at the continued rejection, Ororo's tone became less conciliatory, and there was a definite chill now in the air in the room. "And if you had gone with Emma, you would be dead now, with all the Hellions -- she could not protect them and she could not have protected you."

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I wouldn't have needed her protection. Maybe if I'd been with the Hellions back then, things would have turned out differently. And maybe, just maybe, if you'd trusted your loved ones and been honest with us after Dallas, Ororo, maybe Illyana wouldn't have died. You didn't see her, Ororo, but I did -- she went crazy trying to avenge Peter's death. She might never have turned into DarkChylde if she hadn't used her black magic trying to kill Forge to avenge her brother, and a whole lot of things might have turned out differently. You didn't care how much you hurt any of us back then, Illyana or me, so don't give me this big 'I care for you, I only want to help and protect you' act -- you didn't care when it mattered."

Logan sat in a booth at Harry's, nursing a beer and absently munching on pretzels from a bowl sitting on the table. There was a faint, concerned frown on his face as he watched Wisdom making a substantial dent in the contents of a full bottle of Scotch. The younger man had demanded it from a somewhat dubious Harry, who had looked over to Logan for approval before shrugging and leaving the bottle on the table, together with a telephone.

This early in the day, the place was nearly empty, but they'd still chosen a back corner for its relative isolation, mostly out of habit. It had taken Wisdom quite a few phone calls to find the man he wanted. He'd tried John's flat first, of course, but hadn't been too surprised to hear the endless ring. There had been no answer at his new girlfriend's place either, which was a bit more surprising, and the regulars at his favorite pub reported they hadn't seen him yet that afternoon.

To Logan's keen ears and unhidden amusement, Pete's next phone call, to someone named Chas, had produced nothing but a loud, vitriolic diatribe in a woman's shrill tones about the moral turpitude of every one of her husband's so-called friends, which had Wisdom taking hefty swigs straight from his bottle while he quickly hung up without managing to get a word in edgewise, not even goodby.

Then Logan had watched in silent admiration as his companion doggedly started calling every London pub he could think of and whose number he had memorized, an amazingly long list. But his persistence paid off, when he finally found his quarry. But Logan was even more entertained listening to Pete's exquisite verbal tapdance as he managed to avoid the humiliating embarrassment of a direct request for help, while convincing his friend to come meet him.

As she approached the guestroom which Kitty and Pete had been given, Domino could clearly make out muffled sounds of Kitty and Ororo arguing. Stopping outside the door, she debated whether to come back later but then lifted her hand to rap on the door, lips firmed in resolve.

"Go away," Ororo called out. "We do not wish to be interrupted."

Kitty's higher voice sounded over Ororo's. "Come in." Domino pushed the door open and entered to hear Kitty snap, "This is *my* room, Ororo, Pete's and mine, not yours to decide who comes or goes."

The mysterious co-leader of X-Force ignored the fuming co-leader of the X-Men, saying calmly, "Kitty, I just stopped by to let you know that Logan is taking Pete over to Harry's."

"Is he all right?" Kitty asked eagerly. "Is he still mad at me? Did Logan explain, and tell him how sorry I am? Is he coming back soon?"

Domino couldn't completely suppress her smile at Kitty's reaction. "He's just fine. We talked some, him and Logan and me, and he's calmed down quite a bit. And he'll be back, you don't need to worry about that. But he's still determined to figure out some way to get some money first, to stay independent." Domino also couldn't totally suppress her faint note of smug pride at her old friend's attitude.

Although Storm frowned disapprovingly, Kitty nodded sagely. "Yeah, I'm not surprised. But that stupid idiot should know enough to come back first, and let me help him figure out a way we could do it together."

"He does not deserve your help or your concern, my Kitten, certainly not after abandoning you like he has. And you must not let yourself be drawn into any of his foolish schemes or plots." Storm had to raise her voice slightly, to be heard over the distant rumble of thunder echoing outside the window.

Before Kitty could try to defend her absent lover again, Domino riposted sharply, "On the contrary, she's lucky to have him. Wisdom may not look like much to anyone ignorant enough to judge only by the surface, but he's one of the best men I know, and he's obviously totally besotted with her. I just hope Kitty takes good care of him, in return." Turning to leave, Domino paused briefly in the open doorway to toss back a final comment. "And just consider this, Storm -- I haven't questioned whether 'your Kitten' is good enough for Pete -- yet." But the former mercenary's stony regard softened when she glanced away from the regal Storm to smile a wordless reassuring farewell to the slight, brown-haired figure standing wistfully in the middle of the rapidly darkening guestroom.

The bell over the door tinkled softly as it opened to admit a man, who glanced around the place with cold, pale blue eyes, and then headed toward their booth. Wolverine saw a middle-aged, middle-sized blond man in a rumpled brown trenchcoat, with no particularly noticable feature, who nevertheless made Logan's every sense scream a warning. He dropped into a seat at their booth without waiting for an invitation. "Storm coming," he announced laconically, pulling out a pack of Silk Cuts and lighting one as he sat down. "Right, then, mate, I'm here. What the bloody hell was so important you drug me away from Ivy Mae's welcome-to-the-big-frigging- world party?"

Wisdom pushed over the Scotch bottle, and the newcomer took a long pull out of it just in time to swallow wrong and start coughing when Pete replied simply, "I need money -- lots of money."

Logan waved at Harry to bring another glass, while Pete pounded on his friend's back until he managed to choke out, "So go rob a bleeding bank or something, mate -- do I look like the Lord sodding Treasurer or Lady frigging Bountiful, then, or what? An' don't introduce me to yer friend here..."

"John, Logan. Logan, this pisshead's John Constantine."

They eyed each other warily, while Wisdom reclaimed the Scotch. John didn't say anything, but he didn't see a short, stocky, hairy Canadian -- he stared right through the surface to Wolverine's aura, and recognized a primal force of nature, to be respected, and avoided if at all possible. And Logan just grunted in turn, as he fought to suppress his instinctive growl. He smelled something he hadn't encountered for several years -- demonstink reminiscent of Colossus' magically-aged sister Illyana after her time with Belasco.

Domino made her way through the mansion purposefully, heading for the conference room Siryn had scheduled, to give X-force the briefing she'd promised them on the previous night's emergency mission. She was somewhat early, but she had wanted some extra time to go through her and Cable's computer files, to check on various details of Ivana Baiul's history and current status.

Entering the large, wood-panelled room with its huge table surrounded by leather-upholstered swivel chairs, the former mercenary had to hide her start of surprise to find Cable already in the room, deep in study at the enormous state-of-the-art computer console spread against one whole wall. "What are you doing here, Nate? You certainly don't need to hear this lecture. Or are you checking up on exactly what I'm telling our gang?"

Cable scrambled up from his seat hastily. "Oh, hello, Dom. I was just reviewing all our files on IO and Ivana, for my own benefit, after my idiot screw-up last night. I wasn't planning on staying to look over your shoulder -- I know I never need to do that..." In an obvious effort to change the subject, he asked, "Any news on Pete?"

"We talked. Logan's taken him over to Harry's. That loony limey's apparently come up with some crazy scheme to get himself some spending money, but he wasn't talking any details when they left."

"Anything I... we can do to help? We owe him..."

Domino raised one elegant eyebrow at him skeptically. "You *really* want to help Pete, Nate? Fine. Then you can go pry the great glorified earthgoddess off Pete's lady friend. No matter what a royal -- divine -- pain in the ass the whacked-out weather witch is, I don't think Pete would appreciate finding Kitty being held on murder charges when he gets back, and she was pretty close to that when I left them a few minutes ago."

She could see his throat ripple, as he swallowed nervously. "Err... I don't know if that's really such a good idea, Dom. Storm's a bit angry with me right now -- she seems to be blaming me for Colossus' run-in with Bliss... But I could get Jean and Scott back here. I know they tried to talk some sense into her once already -- they might be willing to try again." Through their own bond, Domino could feel him reach out mentally to the boathouse, and feel his automatic recoil at what he inadvertently picked up there. "Then again, maybe not..."

His longtime partner eyed him sardonically, amused to sense how the hulking behemoth would rather go toe-to-toe with Apocalypse himself again than try to defend Wisdom to Storm. She kept any other feelings carefully hidden under her absolutely level tone. "I'm sure you can handle Storm all by yourself, Nate. After all, you're a big boy now; you don't need Mommy and Daddy to hold your hand. And relax -- I'll bet you anything you want she's busy blaming our bloody Brit, not you. So, why don't you go haul her away from pissing off her precious little kitten and take her to go visit her darling little brother, or something? Tell her you want to apologize to the big booby for your lapse in good judgement and good taste both, and that you think she deserves to witness that."

Before the sputtering Cable could manage to come up with a suitably sarcastic rejoinder, the conference room door opened and Sam Guthrie stuck his head in.

Domino handled the interruption as she handled everything -- coolly, smoothly, with aplomb. "Are you looking for Tabitha, Sam, or Sunspot?" She waved a hand around the empty room. "They're not here yet. Or did you want to sit in on the briefing? I was assuming the X-men would run a similar session, but you're quite welcome to join us, if you'd like."

Sam sidled into the room. "Thanks, ma'am, but no thank you, ma'am. Ah don't wan' ta butt in. Ah just wanted ta talk ta the both of ya, in private, for just a minute, an' Ah figured this might be a good time..."

"What's up, Sam?" Cable, for one, was grateful for the diversion. "Anything wrong?"

Flushing, the lanky blond youth tried to hold their gaze but quickly dropped his eyes to stare down at the floor. "Well... err... Ah jes' realized, Ah never got around ta thankin' ya both f'r still sendin' all that money ta mah family every month, even though Ah sorta ain't a real member of X-force no more. Ah don't really got all that much o' mah X-men allowance ta send home, an' if it weren't f'r the both o' ya an' what Miz Frost sends, mah Momma would be havin' a really hard time with Paige an' me both gone." His country-boy accent was getting stronger and stronger with every word. "Ah feel right bad Ah ain't there ta pitch in, but it sure does help knowin' she kin afford ta hire help or pay th' vet an' get stuff fixed 'n' git insurance an' buy seed corn 'n' fertilizer an' such, an' mah kid brother Josh kin play his gitar an' don't need ta go work in th' mines or nuthin'... Like Ah said, Ah jes' never said thanks, an' Ah figured Ah should..." His voice petered away gradually, as his face got redder and redder.

Cable opened his mouth, but was silenced by a cold glare from Domino before he could get a word out. "You're still part of the team, Sam -- just like you're still welcome at our briefings. And it's really not all that big a deal -- Nate here has more than he knows what to do with, and spending some of it on your peace of mind is a legitimate team expense. No thanks are necessary, but we do appreciate the thought."

After a mortified Sam had escaped, still highly curious about the briefing but not comfortable about accepting Domino's earlier invitation and sitting in with X-force at the moment, Cable turned on his co-leader. "What money? Explain."

"Vanessa set up a substantial monthly payment to Mrs. Guthrie while she was being me." As Cable flinched away from the bleak look in Domino's violet eyes and the harsh echo of pained abandonment in her voice at the memory of her months-long imprisonment by Tolliver -- Tyler, he corrected himself sharply -- and her replacement by Copycat, she went on steadily, answering his unspoken thought, "You never bothered, but I checked out everything she had access to while resetting our access and authorization codes. And no, I didn't cancel the Guthries' stipend. I'm still amazed the little bitch did anything that decent, but stopping it would have hurt Sam's family, not that little shapestealing tart. Besides, we can't have Emma taking better care of her kids than we do ours, now, can we?"

They finished the one bottle and started on another during a confused explanation and some reluctant groveling by a highly discomfited Wisdom, thoroughly enjoyed by a sadistic Constantine. Draining his glass and pouring another shot, John said consideringly, "Y'know, I may have just the goods to help the both of us out, mate. Remember me telling you about the Cult of the Cold Flame, back when?"

"Them was the wankers after that sprat you was tellin' me about, what was goin' t' be the next friggin' Merlin or somethin'?" Wisdom snagged the bottle back from the newcomer, and poured himself another shot also.

"Tim Hunter, yeah. I was in San Francisco introducing him to one of me old friends when I find out the rest of the flipping trenchcoat brigade are planning to take out the Cult before the Cult can take out Tim. So I go hairing off to Calcutta to keep them plonkers out of trouble while they trash the Flamers, then I got to go rush back to San Francisco 'cos Tim an' my lady friend are in over their heads at that sodding bar, Bewitched -- bloody hell of a stupid name for a frigging magician's hangout, that. And then, after I scare off the stupid wankers there an' haul their bums out of there, I'm too swamped, like, to go back through the temple we hit. But the bleeding Flamers were powerful mojo, mate -- that place were full up with stuff I could horsetrade to all kinds of frigging sicko pissheads fer whatever I want. We could go there, right now, an' load up."

"What'd I want with a crockful o' magic goodies, then?" Pete eyed Constantine skeptically. "Black Air used t' send me chasin' after crap like that. All I ever seen o' your tricks, 's more bloody trouble 'n it's worth... An' Romany would just want it all off o' me fer free, anyway..."

The older Englishman shook his head impatiently. "You ain't that dumb. Think, Pete -- that frigging temple's stuffed full of centuries of offerings from the bleeding stupid an' scared faithful -- not to mention all the bribes to the sodding priests to get their pet demons to cure or kill some old fart, and masses of loot from any plonker brave enough an' dumb enough to stand up against 'em, what they sent their demons to take out. You help me get them 'magic goodies' I want an' you load up on all the regular-type loot we can haul away. You even get to pick -- jewels, gold, artwork, whatever. All there just waitin' fer you..."

Wisdom began nodding his head slowly about halfway through John's impassioned sales pitch. He could easily imagine the possibilities in the situation as his old pubmate described it. He knew from experience that it wouldn't be anywhere near as easy as Constantine made it sound, or John would already have made away with everything of any value there. But Pete knew his aptitude for and tolerance of physical danger was significantly higher than Constantine's, who tended to avoid any action like the plague and usually mucked it up when he did get dragged into something.

He'd been watching their discussion silently until now, but Logan was definitely beginning to worry about what risks an uncharacteristically desperate Wisdom might take to prove a point to Kitty and -- probably more importantly -- to her disapproving X-friends. "Want some help, kid?"

"Nah. Thanks, mate, but this is somethin' I need t' do fer meself." Pete's refusal was immediate and automatic, although a little corner of his mind was tempted. "You head on back t' them mad mutant hordes, an' stroke my Kitty fer me until I get back." His gruff tone softened a bit on those last words.

The slouching Constantine straightened up and threw his head back to drain the last few drops from his glass, then stood up suddenly. "No time like the present, then. It's nice an' dark there, good time to break in." With that, he grabbed the Scotch bottle and stowed it in an inner pocket in his decrepit brown trenchcoat. Wisdom followed him out the door like a dark shadow, as the two Brits left Logan to settle the tab.

The senior (at least, genetically speaking -- chronologically is a whole other story) Summers wasn't faring much better than his techno- organic, time-displaced son at the moment.

Cyclops had taken Xavier's breakfast in to his office, and been drawn into another hindsight analysis of the previous evening's events while the Professor ate, which covered no new ground at all. Then, after cleaning up and neatly putting away all of the china, cutlery, glassware and tray, a frustrated Scott had headed down to the boathouse for some peace and quiet, and walked into total chaos.

When he came through the small entryway into the living room, Scott had to immediately dodge a levitating lamp. His wife had lifted up the sofa and its two endtables with their contents telekinetically, and was busy furiously vacuuming the spotless carpet under the floating furniture.

Jean had decided she was far too keyed up to relax or take a nap after all the morning fuss, despite her lack of quite a few hours sleep. She'd considered and discarded either a danger room workout or a shopping trip after fleeting consideration, needing physical release but wanting to be alone. The only thing she really felt like doing right now, the only activity that would let her work off her excess nervous energy safely, was cleaning. It was a cliche, but cliches are sometimes such for a reason.

Scott ducked under a hovering pile of unread magazines and several romance novels and dropped heavily into his favorite recliner. "Hello, honey." He didn't register her lack of any reply to that perfunctory greeting. Tuning out the howl of the vacuum exhaust, he let his mind wander over the events of the past few days, and he suddenly remembered something he'd meant to get back to Jean about. "The Professor said he was going down to the Medlab, to check on Peter. I couldn't decide if I should bring up what Kurt told us yesterday, about Peter's attack on Pete. I think the Professor needs to know, even if Peter would prefer it kept quiet. I'd like to get his opinion on handling Peter and his problems."

"Peter has a lot bottled up inside him. Betsy and I noticed that last night. He wouldn't let either of us in to large parts of his mind and memories, but we didn't have much chance to follow up. I didn't want to bulldoze my way in, since he would have felt it, and Betsy was too busy and too tired to sneak in delicately and snoop around."

"You shouldn't talk about invading his mental privacy like that so casually, Jean." Scott's tone was faintly disapproving. "That's not the ethics the Professor taught us. We just have to get Peter to be willing to open up and ask for help. Going into Peter's mind to make sure all traces of that girl's pleasure powers are gone is different, of course."

His red-haired wife's temper flared to match her fiery mane, slowly escaping from the kerchief she'd put on together with her oldest and rattiest clothes. "Well, I'm sure you'll all feel much better after the Professor examines Peter and says there are no aftereffects of what he went through last night with that psychosexual vampire bimbo. After all, that'll make it all nice and official -- much more so than Betsy and me saying that same thing last night and this morning."

"I didn't mean it that way," Scott protested automatically, as he quickly lifted his feet up high and grabbed hold of the chair-arms as she mentally raised him and his recliner both, and sent the vacuum cleaner directly at him, all while she dropped the couch and tables and plumped up the two needlepoint pillows on the couch by punching them viciously.

"Of course you didn't. You just belittled my abilities in front of everyone last night, so I can't imagine why I shouldn't think you're doing the same thing this morning." Jean turned away so sharply that her hip caught one of the endtables, and the large lamp rocked alarmingly until she steadied it.

Aghast, he sputtered, "When did I do that?" just before his teeth slammed together in a jaw-wrenching snap as his wife dropped both him and his chair, hard, when her collision with the table and her automatic grab at the falling lamp broke her concentration.

"Last night, when I couldn't find Peter with Cerebro... you were *so* sure the Professor could have found him, and you didn't hesitate to say so, in front of everyone..." She had her back to him now, as she started pulling books and knick-knacks out of an oak wall unit prior to dusting it.

"I didn't mean it that way..." His voice was a bit muffled, and Jean glanced over her shoulder briefly to see him gingerly massaging his jaw as he went on placatingly, "I just meant he had more experience..."

She very pointedly didn't answer him, but turned back to the empty shelves and got busy with polish and dustcloth, sending the vacuum cleaner over to circle the tv/stereo entertainment center in the meantime and gather up the spilled popcorn from their aborted evening's entertainment of the Braddock siblings and their respective partners the night before.

After a long moment of silence (except for the raucous roar of that vacuum cleaner, which he was seriously considering disabling with a well- aimed optic blast), Scott went on doggedly, "I really don't understand why you're being like this, Jean. You're not usually so irrational... I don't know, maybe Storm is right -- it seems like there's been nothing but trouble ever since that Wisdom character showed up..."

Everything she'd been levitating came crashing down as Jean whirled to face her husband, although it wasn't anywhere near as satisfying as it should have been as most of the stuff just bounced and rolled around on the thick, plush carpet. "That's just ridiculous! You're being as silly as Storm is, blaming everything on Pete, and you don't even have her lame excuse--"

He interrupted her a bit sharply. "Hey, I'm concerned about Kitty, too. We all got in the habit of looking out for that spunky little kid, Logan and Ororo and Kurt and Peter and me... Ok, I know I left right when she came, when you... the Phoenix-you died. But I was on enough missions with her tagging along that she's like family to me too... and I remember how excited she was about the baby, just like we were her own family, she fussed over Maddie all the time and she was just so petrified the first time she got to hold little Nathan but then she did just fine with him..." He stalled to a halt, finally noticing Jean's glare, then blustered on. "Now this guy comes along, out of nowhere, and they're together and he's got access to everything and what do we really know about him anyway? Just that he was a spy for an agency with a hidden agenda..."

"You were supposed to talk Betsy's brother out of that nonsense, not pick it up from him. We know that Pete is Logan's friend, and Nathan's, and Domino's. And that should be more than enough. Remember, Rogue came to us from Mystique's Brotherhood of Evil Mutants, and Gambit was a thief, and we accepted him on Ororo's voucher." Turning away, she began mentally gathering up and replacing all the fallen articles, the forgotten vacuum cleaner still making a loud din where it had come to a halt over by the opposite wall. Decorative pots, ceramic animals and family photographs settled sedately on the shelves, while the assorted books cavorted in the air as Jean first arranged them alphabetically, then resorted them by size, and finally just dropped them down onto any convenient open spot. "We know Kurt is satisfied -- or did you tell him you consider him a good leader just to make him feel good? And we know both Pete and Kitty have put up with a lot of crap since coming here, and they could have avoided a whole lot of it if they had just told everybody about Peter's rampage, but they've both respected Kurt's and Peter's wishes, and kept silent."

"So you're on his side? Because you feel sorry for him?" Anything else Cyclops was going to say was lost in a fit of coughing at the sudden dust-cloud as Jean moved over to the bay window and shook out the drapes vigorously, the lower parts by hand, the upper portions telekinetically.

She sent the vacuum cleaner chasing through the air after the dust motes -- and more than a few dust bunnies -- floating and twinkling in the sunlight streaming in through the window. "First, who said anything about sides? Since when did he become the enemy? Second, Pete and Kitty are obviously so blissfully happy together they don't need me or anyone else feeling sorry for either one of them. Finally, if them being together is ok with Logan, it's fine with me. If Pete is Logan's friend, that should be enough for all of us."

"I'm not so sure about that." He jerked his head back to avoid the vacuum cleaner darting perilously close to his nose after the last specks of dust. "Logan and Nate and Domino all have some pretty strange friends. There's a whole lot about Logan's past we still don't know, and about Nate's past, too -- his future, I mean, in the future after we left -- and his past, in the past after he came to this time..." Scott made a wry face, and gave up on the sentence, the grammar and the explanation of his son's confused history, trusting his wife to always understand his meaning without more words being necessary. "And we certainly don't know anything about Domino's history -- unless you know something you haven't told me."

"I know we've both had to deal with duplicates taking over our lives and our men." Jean ostentatiously turned her back on him, picking up and putting away the video tapes and CDs scattered around the entertainment center. "I know what it takes to get past that, to work through it -- except I had to do it twice over. You and Warren and Bobby and Hank knew me, the real me, from before, but I'd barely met the new X-Men before the Phoenix took my place. They were her friends, not mine -- just like they and Rogue and Betsy were Maddie's friends, not mine -- and now I have to go through that whole process all over again, with Kitty, if I want us to be friends." She suddenly ran the vacuum at her husband's feet again, and hid her smile of satisfaction at his yelp as she caught him by surprise. "So, yes, I admire Domino for being able to recover after finding Copycat had taken her place and Nate hadn't even noticed, for resuming her life with Nate after that, and sticking with X-force even though they'd only known Vanessa as her. I don't much like Storm trying to mess Kitty and Pete up, and I don't much like Storm trying to mess Nate and Domino up."

"Ororo's just worried about Kitty..." Scott protested, weakly.

"Ororo's trying to eat Kitty," his wife snapped back, "in case you hadn't noticed. She's managed to ignore Kitty just fine up until now but, now that Kitty's turned elsewhere, Storm's just plain jealous of Kitty's feelings for Pete. She's eaten up with guilt about everything, especially the Morlocks, especially that stunt she arranged in Dallas, and especially Peter, but she won't just apologize and admit she was wrong -- is wrong -- about anything or anybody, including Pete."

Raising his voice to be heard over the howl of the vacuum cleaner -- which kept getting louder as it filled up -- Scott ignored Wisdom for the more personal topic Jean had raised. "I'm sorry about Domino but I think Nathan would be good with Ororo. She's needed somebody for a long time now. And being with Nate might take her attention off Kitty being with Pete," he added, just a bit snidely.

"If that's what you think, then you're an idiot just like your son. Ororo doesn't want a friend or equal for a lover, she'd much rather have a worshiper. She wouldn't compromise an inch, to meet Forge's needs as well as her own. Haven't you noticed, anytime Nate is around her he turns into a spineless jellyfish?" Jean glanced at the barely touched plates of snacks on the table under the window, curdling and stiffening from being left out all night and now garnished with a fine film of dust from her vigorous curtain rattling a few moments before, and the plates obediently rose and floated off into the kitchen while she winced at the large brown circles now clearly visible in the thin grey layer covering the side table and attacked it with furniture polish and dustcloth.

Her husband eyed the departing hors d'oeuvres regretfully, wishing he'd had a chance to check if any remained edible in his somewhat looser definition of that concept. "Nathan's... polite around her." Yeah, that sounded good, Scott decided, so he went on more confidently, "Domino just keeps his old mercenary side alive. Ororo keeps him civilized. She'll help him believe in and live the Professor's dream, just like she kept him from snooping in that girl's mind last night..." His voice trailed away as he realized he'd stumbled into a conversational minefield again.

"Right." Jean's reply dripped sarcasm. "Can't you just admit Nate should have gone along with his nasty old mercenary instincts and checked her out? That would have been spared us a potential disaster. Do you really think Ororo's only motive here is to convert Nathan to the X-Men's dream? I think we already did a pretty good job of that raising him as Redd and Slym, even if he does come at the dream in his own unique way."

"But that's exactly it -- I hope Storm will help him see the dream correctly, not all twisted by what he's lived through." Cyclops flinched and ducked as several nearly-full wine glasses passed directly over his head while zooming to the kitchen, followed by Brian's and Meggan's barely touched mineral water.

"Storm will certainly insist he see the dream her way -- she doesn't like people to stand up to her or disagree with her about anything, even if she needs it. I'm just glad Kitty and Pete are standing up to her." Jean wandered around the room, swatting at the pictures on the wall with her dustcloth, the vacuum cleaner trailing after her like an obedient but whining little puppy.

"You call a childish argument about money standing up to Storm? You approve of Pete just walking out on Kitty like that?" Jean could feel her husband's gaze follow her every move, although his dark ruby quartz lenses concealed his eyes quite effectively, as usual.

"I think that Pete has a very reasonable and legitimate concern about maintaining some independence, and I not only approve, I applaud him for it. He didn't walk out on Kitty, he walked out on our lifestyle. And, yes, I do think he's stood up to Storm and the Professor admirably. You could take some lessons from him, you know."

"What?" Cyclops had been floundering throughout the entire argument, so used to relying on their bond to understand and affect Jean's feelings that he wasn't used to a pure verbal discussion anymore. But that last was the most flabbergasting remark in the whole series of such surprising comments she'd made ever since damping their bond down the previous night.

She stopped, finally silencing the vacuum cleaner, and just stood in the center of the room, staring at him quizzically. "Doesn't it ever bother you, Scott? We're both completely dependent on the Professor, financially, and in a lot of other ways too."

"What's wrong with that?" He was honestly puzzled. "It's not like we could have regular jobs and still be X-Men, you know. We tried that, long ago, and it's just too hard to maintain cover. Besides, there's so much anti-mutant hysteria out there this is the safest place we could be."

Jean sighed. "It may be the best way and the safest place to be X-Men, but is it a good way or a safe place to raise a family?"

"You think Pete and Kitty are going to have a kid?!" Scott yelped, even as he cringed internally at the thought of Storm's probable reaction.

"No, you big dope, I think you and I might have a kid someday!" Jean snapped. "And I don't know if I'd want to raise a family here. If we ever have children, I think we'd need to get away from this life."

"I tried that once, remember?" His voice was pained at referring to the ever-awkward topic of his marriage to Madelyne. "It didn't work."

"I know." Jean's soft tone and gentle gaze were more sympathetic than he'd expected. "But the problem wasn't Sentinels attacking you in Alaska, it was you craving this life -- and me -- and coming back to it. You left Maddie and little Nathan to come back and be an X-Man, to start X-Factor with us. You left her for me, but you also left her for the whole X-lifestyle. You thought the world needed you more as a hero than they needed you as a husband and father. And that makes me afraid you couldn't leave the X-Men with me either, to start a family. Not only are we both totally dependent on the Professor financially, you're tied here emotionally too -- to the Professor, because he's the closest thing to a real father you had while growing up -- to Storm, because she challenged you for leadership, and beat you, and you still can't face the fact she beat you, without her powers -- to Cable, because he's your little Nathan and it hurts you to see him all grown and tough and hardened by what he's been through."

"I still can't believe you brought that flyin' rat with us." Pete spared a baleful glare for the hovering Lockheed, while he crouched in a doorway and studied the dismal neighbourhood.

John shrugged. "Look, mate, you may be frigging dumb enough to argue with a sodding fire-breathing dragon, but I ain't that stupid, no matter what size the bugger is. He followed us -- must mean he wanted to come." The little alien might not be a *magic* dragon, such as the one Zed had birthed so long ago (with his unknowing assistance), but it was close enough that the blond Englishman eyed the creature with wary respect.

However, Lockheed had apparently decided that any friend of Wisdom's had to be cut from the same disreputable cloth, and the diminutive dragon threw Constantine a disdainful "Pfaugh!" before flying away in the gloom.

Pete rolled his eyes in disgust. "Oh, bloody hell. Not that I care, but Pryde'll kill me fer sure if we lose the soddin' purple anteater on th' other side o' the friggin' world..."

They were in one of the poorest areas of Calcutta, a slum much worse than any inner city in the States. Old abandoned buildings now occupied by families of squatters were surrounded by hovels constructed from sheets of tin, cardboard, planks, torn canvas and plastic sheeting, and anything else the inhabitants were able to scrounge. But, despite the incredible overcrowding immediately behind them, there was a empty, dead zone around the large temple sprawling on overgrown grounds. An extravagant mixture of Moghul and Rajput styles, its quartz and marble walls and gilt-bordered arched windows glowed opalescently in the wan moonlight, its overdone magnificence only highlighted by the squalour of the surroundings.

"Why don't any o' these plonkers just move in over there, then?" Pete demanded, as he slid out of the shelter of the doorway and gestured for his companion to follow. "Looks like more 'n enough soddin' room fer a friggin' army. You said you an' yer lot took the Cult out, back when."

"First, 'cos there's still a whole bleeding army of dumb worshipers guarding this place, waiting fer the lord high mucky-mucks to come back, who don't approve of any of the locals desecrating their holy place in the meantime. Second, 'cos there's all sorts of magic wards and guards inside -- which is why I'm sure what I want, what we want, is still in there."

Pete glanced back over his shoulder to glare at his companion, which saved him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw black-clad arms emerging from the shadows of an alleyway they were passing, and instinctively got off a hot knife severing the strangling cord held between those hands. That threw his assailant's attack off. As he lowered his arms and yanked to tighten the cord which no longer existed, he stumbled, and Pete smashed his elbow into the other's windpipe, sending his attacker down choking.

While Wisdom's eyes flickered rapidly, expertly, between tracking his assailant's fall and sweeping their surroundings for any further danger, his gaze fell on Constantine on the ground, on his knees, eyes bulging and hands feebly clawing at another strangling cord tightened around his neck. Unable to fire a hotknife without chancing hitting his companion, Pete leapt at the other ambusher, throwing him away from his intended victim.

As he pounded the masked head into the ground, Wisdom in turn was jumped by three new assailants. It was a vicious but brief fight. The dark-garbed ambushers seemed unaccustomed to a victim who fought back. But, although he wasn't as massive or muscular as Cable or Michael Cray, the former Black Air agent was fast and wiry, and had a large repertoire of dirty tricks collected from such expert brawlers as Logan and Cole Cash and Eugene Judd, which he didn't hesitate to use. And -- although Wisdom didn't like using his hot-knives in battle after Black Air's misuse of his powers -- when even more attackers piled onto him and started to do some serious damage, a few hot knives driven into any conveniently accessible portions of their anatomies immediately sent them rolling away, curled up and screaming in agony amid the stench of cauterized flesh.

Constantine had recovered enough after a few moments wheezing and gasping to smash one of Pete's playmates over the head with the Scotch bottle he'd appropriated at Harry's so recently. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, and his knuckles were white where he clutched the neck of the broken bottle, whose jagged glass edges made a nasty-looking impromptu weapon, while he hovered on the edge of the fray. Wisdom finished off the last few enemies quickly and stood up himself, just in time to see a horde of additional attackers rapidly approaching.

Before either man could make a move, a small purple blur zoomed past them with a mighty roar and a scorching jet of hot flame engulfed the newcomers, who threw themselves down to roll around madly in the dirt in their efforts to smother the blaze Lockheed ignited in their tight-swathed robes. Wisdom grabbed a handy plank and rushed forward to knock out any who showed the least sign of recovering and resuming the battle. He was surprised to find himself quickly joined by a number of ragged figures, a few running to beat out the flames eagerly licking at the spilled Scotch on the ground before the little conflagration could spread to reach any of the pitiful hovels which formed their only shelter, but most laying into the masked men still trying desperately to put out the fires in their garments.

Then John hauled him out of the melee by the neck of his trenchcoat. "Leave 'em to it, mate." As Wisdom stared at him in surprise, the older man went on, "The Cult's been terrorizing the locals fer a long, long time -- let 'em have their payback." And he calmly lit a cigarette and passed the pack and his lighter over to the younger man, as they watched an eclectic mixture of inhabitants swarming all over the cult troopers, catching random glimpses of a slim young woman repeatedly smashing one limp figure over the head with a cooking pot held firmly in both hands, two screeching elderly women belaboring another prone figure with their bamboo canes, a gang of young boys kicking at a third unmoving body.

A figure walked out of the crowd, which parted briefly to permit his passage before returning to their eager revenge. The wizened old man, dressed in the simple yellow dhoti and robe of a Hindu mendicant monk, came up to the two Englishmen and bowed, joining his hands palms together and then touching his fingertips to his forehead. Pete and John both returned the gesture automatically, as the monk straightened up and spoke in sibilant accented English, "We thank you, strangers, and the Agnivesa. Is there some trifling service with which we may repay our debt to you during this turn of the wheel?"

"Agnivesa?" Pete muttered to Constantine.

"Son of Agni, the Hindu god of fire," John replied, sotto voice.

Storing that bit of trivia for some future colorful and alliterative insult, Wisdom asked the elderly monk, "Anythin' useful you can tell us about that place?" He gestured with his cigarette at the temple looming behind them.

"Only that it is accursed, and those who seek to enter never return, all falling prey to the evil demons within." The saffron-garbed Hindu glanced over at the elaborate structure fearfully.

"Well, thanks fer the warnin', mate, but I been there once, an' got out fine." Constantine seemed unconcerned by the old man's agitation.

John's nonchalant remark earned his nondescript figure a closer look from keen black eyes behind round, wire-rim spectacles. The monk peered at his cold, light blue eyes and the old, drab brown trenchcoat that had seen better days. "I recall you now. You are one of them -- the four men-in-long-coats who came here some years ago -- who defeated the demons and the priests. Perhaps, yes, you may enter and yet leave again. If not, we will settle our kharmic bond in another life."

Inside, the ornate splendour of the temple was as deserted as an opulent mausoleum. The pale moonlight streaming through arched windows was augmented by the white-hot glow from the large hotknife held up by Wisdom, as they moved cautiously down marble halls and glittering walls inlaid with mirrored slivers and semiprecious stones. The wavering light reached between fluted pillars to dimly illuminate intricate tapestries depicting various deities and demons, delectable and dissipated, elegant and evil, aged and ageless.

Unlike the noxious miasma typical of Calcutta's worst slums, inside the dazzling interior the night air was perfumed with jasmine, hyacinth, coriander, rose, underlaid with the faintest trace of a peculiar pungency of too-sweet incense. The dead silence was oppressive so, when strains of sitar, tambour and flute from unseen players began to waft in softly on the breeze, they moved cautiously in that direction.

The music led them to a vast hall, where massive granite columns supported a high arched ceiling vault. Warriors, demons and serving girls mingled in carved bas-relief along the alabaster walls, while the floor was checkered with white marble and black ebony squares, amidst which the wraith of a sparsely dressed dancing girl spun to the ecstasy of her long- dead muse while drums and strings wove an exotic melody.

At the far end of the hall was a carved ivory altar, with a giant statue on it of a golden-coloured woman with ten arms fighting a buffalo demon. In one hand she held a spear piercing her foe, while another hand held his hair so that the serpent she held in a third hand could bite his chest. Her other hands held yet more weapons, and a fiercely growling tiger leaned against her legs. Mountains of tribute were heaped around her feet, spilling off the altar to blanket the floor for yards around.

"Pretty nasty, but not quite my idea of an evil death cult," Wisdom muttered. "More like a battle goddess, with them swords an' all..."

"Durga the inaccessible, fighting the demon Mahisha after the evil git dethroned Indra." John recognized the figure immediately. "You're right about her being a war goddess. But this here is their public site. Durga is just one aspect of Devi the great goddess -- and Kali the black is another. And those attackers outside were Kali worshipers."

While Pete hung back, a bit suspicious at how easy it had been since they'd entered the temple, Constantine started down the wide entry steps, muttering to himself, "Looks like lots of loot fer you, mate, but I don't sense any aura like what I'm hunting for..." He stepped off the bottom stair onto the elegant chessboard floor, and promptly sank into the floor. The only thing that kept him from falling through was Wisdom snatching first at the collar of his tan trenchcoat with one hand and then getting a firmer grip on the back of his green shirt and yellow tie with his other hand, hauling John's not-inconsiderable weight back onto the steps bodily.

Leaving his wheezing compatriot to catch his breath, Pete went down to the lowest stair and bent to gingerly touch the parquet, which looked perfectly normal. Where the older man had fallen, and in several other spots, his hand went through the solid-looking tiles without meeting any resistance, although there seemed to be some solid surface in-between.

As Constantine joined him, much more careful about where he put his feet this time, Pete held out an arm to him. "Hang on tight," he growled and bent to lower his head through the floor right where his hand had gone through before. John could hear him muttering, "I bloody hate this, it's as soddin' bad as Pryde phasin' me," while his face disappeared and his dark hair and coat blended into the black marble tile until only a bit of white at the back of his neck remained visible. Then the slightly flabby Constantine braced himself as he felt Wisdom hauling himself back upright to report, "Nothin' unexpected -- th' usual stake-filled, snake-filled pit. Except it reaches all across the whole friggin' place..."

Pete sat back and lit a cigarette while John poked a finger at the floor experimentally, where it sank out of sight. Pulling his hand back, the blond man started a cigarette also, and the two smoked in meditative silence for a while. Then Pete ground out his stub in the stairs, sighed in resignation, and held out his arm to his companion again. "Time fer another look."

He stayed bent over much longer, until John's arm ached holding his weight, and then resurfaced with a grunt only to study the checkered tiles before them intently. "There's pillars there, holdin' up islands o' real floor, but there's no unbroken path, an' no obvious correlation between th' colors we see an' which ones are real and which are smoke-an'-mirrors. I dunno if I can memorize the sequence to walk, an' then you'd have to follow me exactly. The real tiles look fine to step on, but they're too bleedin' small to stop an' sit down t' look fer the next good one."

"So we need to find another way?" Constantine's tone was neutral. But he knew magical obstacles were usually designed so you *had* to get through, not around, to get where you wanted to go.

"Nah." Wisdom scooped up the ashes from his cigarette, and John's, and scattered them over the floor immediately in front of the lowest step. A thin grey haze settled on the solid parts, while elsewhere the ashes fell through. "Plain as the nose on yer face. How many fags you got?"

"Har bloody har." John stared at the wide expanse between them and the altar in the distance. "Not that many."

"Right, then." The former Black Air agent got up and started back along the way they'd come, his companion perforce following. Once in the hallway, he started ripping the elaborate antique tapestries down from the walls, grunting, "Get all you can, an' pile 'em up by the stairs."

Before Constantine could respond, billowing grey clouds rose from the bundle in Pete's arms, condensing rapidly into a multitude of deformed dwarves and giants all with frightful shapes, monstrous bellies, hanging breasts and long protruding fangs. Some had only one eye and others only one ear; some had two legs, or even three and a few had four. They had the heads of donkeys, horses, and elephants. "Wot the bloody hell?"

Constantine recognized them, even if Wisdom didn't. "Trouble! Run!"

The newcomers immediately attacked the small, dark figure in their midst, and Wisdom fired off a furious barrage of hot knives in defense while frantically dodging tooth and claw for what felt like an eternity, sparing a moment for a thankful prayer that his attackers were so tightly packed they got into each other's way. Then he felt their fury ease, and heard John's shout, "Pete, get out of there, now!" A few more well-aimed hot-knives, and he dropped to the floor and crawled out through the narrow corridor he'd cut in a forest of crooked legs, to end up behind a pillar with his hidden companion. His erstwhile opponents ignored them both, and continued the affray.

"Wot the bloody hell are them things, an' why are they fightin' each other?" Gasping, his chest heaving, Wisdom expanded his earlier question, having a better chance now to study the various creatures embroiled in the chaos in the middle of the hallway.

"They ain't fighting each other." John's tone was a bit smug. "That first bunch were Rakshasas -- Hindu demons. One of them tapestries you took I recognized as an image of Ravana, their king. They must have been spelled into the weaving, as a protection against thieves, and come out when you laid hands on the fabric. I searched, and found another one, with Shesha the Naga king, and I was right -- Nagas came out when I pulled it down. Shesha owed me a favor, see, and Nagas hate Rakshasas anyway..." John gestured at the ongoing battle, where Pete saw that the incredible, misshapen demons were being rapidly demolished by half-human, half-serpent creatures, who in turn were being viciously torn apart by their foes.

It wasn't long at all until none remained of either side, the last two ripping each other's throats out simultaneously. The two Englishmen emerged from their hiding, cautiously, and Wisdom muttered, "Right, then -- we can't use the wall-hangin's. Wot else can we find that'll burn?"

A prolonged search of a number of side chambers revealed an enormous dining room, and resulted in a stack of draperies and couch pillows piled by the floor-trap.

While a groaning Constantine dragged over some opulent Persian rugs to add to their growing collection, Pete was just gathering up his waning strength to summon up yet more hot knives to ignite the material, when he uttered a strangled yelp as he felt a light tap on his shoulder, "Ahem!" Whirling around, he saw Lockheed hovering immediately behind him, flapping his wings slowly, silently. The purple dragon opened his jaws wide and released an enormous gout of flame with a hearty roar, and Wisdom jumped back reflexively as the jet passed mere inches in front of his face.

Catching his breath, and glaring back at the smug little alien, Pete glanced down to see an enormous heap of charred, still-smoking ashes. He plunged his hands into the grey dust -- counting on his powers to protect his skin from the slowly dissipating heat -- and threw handfuls of ashes over the checkered floor, while Lockheed fanned the clouds with his wings to help ensure a uniform coating. Gesturing with a hint of a flourish at the resulting discolored patches scattered on the tiles indicating intact floor, Wisdom smirked at his old drinking buddy, "After you, mate."

Peter Rasputin was lying in an outsized diagnostic bed in the MedLab, his eyes fixed on the flat unbroken expanse of off-white ceiling, when Professor Xavier came in and maneuvered his Shi'ar hoverchair to settle soundlessly next to him. "How are you feeling now, Peter?"

"Like a fool, yet again." Colossus turned his head away from Xavier to stare at the rack of medical sensors and diagnostic instruments stored neatly on the opposite wall. "A fool to believe somebody could have been interested in me, in my life outside the X-Men. A fool to believe there could be a life for me outside the X-Men."

"There is no reason for you to feel so. Has no one explained to you that that girl would have treated anyone else the same way she used you? It is the nature of her power, apparently, to make men want her beyond any ability of their own to resist." While speaking, Xavier initiated a light mental probe but Rasputin's mind curled shut automatically, his anger and resentment as good a shield as any more practiced technique.

"Yes, Ororo stopped by with Cable a short time ago, and he told me who Nicole really is, and apologized for not recognizing her or her name in time to stop my leaving with her. So, if that is why you came, it is unnecessary, and you may leave me alone again." He turned back to face the Professor and hurled all the bitterness in his voice at his longtime authority figure as if a weapon.

Xavier ignored his acid tone coolly, maintaining his dispassionate study. "No, Peter, I came to see for myself that you are fine, to see how I can best help you. I know, of course, that Jean and Psylocke examined you earlier, and found no traces remaining of that girl's pleasure powers, but I would prefer to ascertain that for myself." The Professor extended his mental probe toward the young Russian again, but found it again unable to penetrate into Peter's mind to any significant depth through the storm of roiling emotions bubbling up to swirl over its surface.

Colossus sat up in the diagnostic bed, his face suffused with anger. "I am not fine. I am alone again, without my art and my success, without my Illyana and Mikhail and my parents, without my country and my culture, without my Katya and her support. And you took that all from me, you and your X-Men, so thank you, Professor, but I do not wish any more help from you. I do not think I could survive much more help from you." His large hands were fisted in the sheet so tightly that his knuckles matched the white of the fabric, and his hoarse voice was getting louder and louder. "I accept Jean's and Betsy's assurance that they cleared all traces of that demon from my mind. I do not require your clearance also."

The outcome hung in the air for a long moment, as Xavier internally debated whether to insist on continuing his examination, while Rasputin's breathing got more ragged and his face even redder. But Xavier had never liked dealing with strong emotions -- his biggest handicap with his old friend/enemy Magnus -- and the massive young Russian's current appearance and behavior were bringing back unpleasant memories of being pursued by a Colossus controlled by the Shadow King. "As you wish, Peter. I will leave you for now, but we will resume this discussion later, when you are more in command of yourself."

Professor Xavier found Hank McCoy in his laboratory, running a series of followup tests on a cooperative Douglock while Rahne chaperoned them, as she'd promised the concerned Nightcrawler the day before. Beast was having a wonderful time -- Douglock didn't test as pure Phalanx, based on comparisons to Phalanx remains McCoy had been able to find and autopsy, and there were tantalizing echoes of both Warlock's and Cable's techno- organics in his system. Douglock in turn was fascinated, and Rahne was engrossed also, as the pedantic Beast's inevitable verbose lectures to his young and small, but interested and well-informed, audience ranged from describing both the objectives and the results of his various tests to discussing all aspects of Moira's health and research in response to her anxious ward's many questions about the Legacy virus.

McCoy had just called up a composite overlay of brainwave scans he'd taken from Douglock yesterday superimposed on similar scans from both the deceased Warlock and Doug Ramsey, and was pointing out similarities and differences to his informal pupils, when the lab door slid open to admit Xavier's hoverchair. "Henry, I wish to discuss Peter's condition with you." He frowned at the trio huddled at the computer display. "Since you have been... distracted... by other activities, you may be unaware of his increasing agitation. I believe he may need to be sedated, to avoid any possibility of another uncontrolled rampage such as Jean and Betsy reported occurred during their return last night."

Beast straightened up a bit reluctantly, his blue fur shimmering in the light from the video display screen. "I will ascertain his condition immediately. However, my most recent examination a quite inconsiderable timespan ago indicated no reason for any such external intervention or any need for uninterrupted monitoring. In official medical parlance, he was then 'resting comfortably' although he did indicate some impatience to be released from my custody." Hank paused on his way out to glance back at the Professor. "And I also have several substantive concerns about our Comrade Rasputin upon which I desire to confer at some length with you, Charles. I will return momentarily."

"Wait, Dr. McCoy, we'll come wi' ye." Rahne pulled Douglock toward the door. "A want tae see Peter again. A'll sit wi' him fuir a wee bit. Mayhap a friendly face will help him relax, an' rest."

They had crossed the trick floor, carefully stepping only on grey ash. Pausing to rest for just a moment on solid surface on the far side, both Pete and John lit cigarettes as they stood in front of the altar, staring up at the golden-hued statue towering overhead.

Finishing his smoke and flinging the butt away casually, Constantine began searching the area around the altar, pawing through the gleaming heaps of tribute spilling down around the goddess' legs in his quest for the cult's magical implements. Wisdom had no real idea what his friend was searching for and left him to it, finding the cult's mundane treasure more than enough to hold his attention.

Much of it was too large, too bulky, too heavy to remove easily -- a carved ivory sundial of the best Tamil craftwork; heavy, solid gold plates and cups to serve several dozen diners; long ceremonial robes of gold and silver brocade, festooned with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and pearls; jewel-encrusted turbans topped with filigree diadems in the shape of a spraying fountain or a birdcage or a peacock feather; cloth-of-gold pillows with jewelled tassels; golden statuettes, braziers, lamps, urns and basins.

Pete was busy stuffing his pockets with necklaces, earrings, finger and toe rings, all spilling out carelessly from several carved ebony and mahogany chests, when Constantine called out, "Leave that dinky stuff. We need to find the way to the real temple, where the real loot is." As Wisdom looked over at him skeptically, then looked down at the elaborate sapphire-and-diamond tiara he was holding at that instance, John repeated impatiently, "I told you, this is just Durga -- fer show, like. We need to find the way to Kali's altar -- that's where the really good stuff is."

Sighing, Wisdom joined his older companion in casting around the area for possible exits, after he first prudently grabbed and pocketed another double-handful of jewelry. While searching the room, Pete could detect just a hint of a breeze in a few particular locations. Following that faint trace of cool moving air, he found the draft was strongest next to a slab with a naked dancing girl carved in deep relief into the stone. As Pete's hands began feeling around the carving's protuberances -- head, legs, hips, breasts -- John noticed and walked over to say caustically, "Didn't realize you was missing your new girl so bad so fast, mate."

Just then, Wisdom found the concealed levers in the breasts and made the entire slab disappear into the wall with a grinding creak, revealing the entrance to a rough stone tunnel. Swallowing a sly, pointed rejoinder about John having also acquired a new girlfriend recently, Pete didn't say anything, but just raised an eyebrow, smirking at Constantine's atypical discomfiture.

The laboratory door slid open again, as McCoy returned, alone. "You were partially correct, Charles -- Peter was indeed somewhat more agitated than he'd been earlier, although I did not discern any signs indicative of a potential rampage, as you had suggested. I did administer a very mild sedative, however, as I would prefer Colossus to be well and truly rested after his ordeal before releasing him, and he is physically depleted in some most atypical ways. He must have been disturbed by the depth of your examination. Did you uncover any subtle indications of residual damage which our distinctly variegate-tressed trio of feminine pulchritude missed in their earlier scans?"

"Peter refused to allow me in his mind, and became extremely agitated when I attempted a surreptitious scan, making a number of wild accusations about my plotting against him." During that speech, Xavier activated the remote monitor in the MedLab, to observe Rahne's visit with Rasputin. The young weregirl was sitting on the edge of the large bed, holding his hand and smoothing his hair back gently, softly crooning an old Scots lullaby as Peter tossed and turned in a restless doze, obviously in the grip of a nightmare from his low mutterings.

"His psyche is abnormally sensitized now, after all the stimulation he has had within the past 24 hours." Beast had noticed the Professor's frown at Peter's recalcitrance, and tried to smooth things over. "First, the 'mental rape' last night, then Betsy utilizing her own and Meggan's abilities to eradicate that jezebel's influence, then Jean scanning their work as an independent verification. His mind is 'tender' to the touch, and he flinches back from contacts that at normal times he would not even notice. But, although I comprehend you would of course prefer to verify his condition for yourself, there does not appear to be any justification for further concern about any lingering addiction or withdrawal." McCoy fell silent as he registered the Professor's disapproving frown at his inadvertent lecturing on matters mental to the world's premier telepath.

Hank frowned down himself at the medical records he'd gotten from Moira early that morning. Peter had several healed scars from relatively recent injuries, but McCoy assumed most of those dated to his sojourn on Avalon, and its spectacular destruction. He'd intended to compare Peter's current state to his most recent examination at Muir as an adjunct method to determine any effects of the previous night's events but, while there was no sign of any such immediate differences, he'd been stunned to find portions of the medical records encrypted, and sealed under a password he didn't know. That had made him curious. And Moira's blanket refusal to discuss the sealed data with him had whetted his curiosity even more.

He'd questioned everyone who'd come in to visit Colossus, both late last night and now during the day, and it didn't escape his keen scrutiny that all of Excalibur knew something they weren't telling. He hadn't seen Kitty stop by, with or without her new swain, which Hank couldn't decide was to be expected, or not. But Nightcrawler had come, and had looked uncomfortable at his questions, while Amanda seemed to be forcing herself to stay silent. Rahne had slapped a hand over Douglock's mouth and then refused to let him be alone with Hank for even a second ever since. He hadn't bothered Betsy or Meggan or Jean during their psychic examinations, but he'd had some hope of Cyclops knowing something from his wife's scans, through their bond and, in fact, Scott had blatantly hemmed and hawed at his enquiry. Most of the X-Men had seemed genuinely ignorant, however, although during their conversation Rogue had brought up an odd throwaway comment made during the rescue planning the night before.

Beast had to assume that, if Cyclops and his wife knew of something, then Xavier had to be in the know also. "However, while I remain quite cognizant you are here to discuss last night's events further, I would prefer to pursue something else relevant to our somewhat unstable Russian comrade with you, Charles. The previous evening, I am told Shadowcat said something to Mr. Wisdom about 'what if he goes after you again, hurts you again'? Can you enlighten me as to what circumstance she was alluding? And why the overworked and overstressed but still highly conscientious Dr. MacTaggert would deliberately seal portions of Peter's medical records? It complicates my treatment decisions and impacts the ultimate likelihood of a positive prognosis if I am not provided all relevant information about my patient..."

Xavier sighed, resting his chin on the forefingers extended from his steepled fingers. "There was an... incident... when Peter first came to Muir. It was late, and he'd been traveling for a long time, ever since leaving here after the confrontation with Gene Nation. He arrived at Muir to find Katherine... entwined... with her new... paramour, and the two men had a fight. You can certainly see for yourself that no permanent damage was done to Mr. Wisdom, and Nightcrawler invited Peter to join the team immediately afterwards. But Katherine and a few of the others overreacted -- I believe she calls it 'attempted murder' -- and still exaggerate the fracas."

"And why weren't we informed of this 'incident' -- which I am not convinced was quite as benign as implied by your presentation -- either at the time of occurrence, or at some point in the intervening interval?" The Professor's brief recitation had answered some of Beast's questions, explaining Kitty's reputed comment, and Moira's uncharacteristic refusal to send over any of Wisdom's medical records when Hank had requested them with the reasonable excuse of wanting up-to-date records on Excalibur in case another mission such as the previous night's didn't have as benign an ending. However, it opened up an entirely different can of worms.

"I gather Peter wished his... mistake... forgotten as it should have been forgiven, entirely, rather than have it held against him forever, as indeed some of his teammates seem to be doing. He requested the others on Muir to keep the story confidential." Xavier glanced away, to watch Rahne and Douglock talking quietly on the monitor.

Now Hank was dying to know how Scott and Jean knew, and who else did. "It certainly appears to be a legitimate issue for concern on the parts of both young Shadowcat and her acerbic significant other, and for any others interacting with Peter on either a regular or an intermittent basis, so I cannot see how he would expect it to be simply forgotten. However, may I then inquire, in that circumstance, how it is that you were notified?" adding mentally, 'and I was not?'

"Kurt placed one stipulation upon Peter's admittance to Excalibur -- that he accept counselling. Because of Peter's part in her son Kevin's death, and her own Legacy virus research and illness both, Moira was not deemed a viable option, so Peter began the required counselling sessions with Dr. Campbell, who of course consulted me professionally about Peter's mental state." Professor Xavier stared back at the Beast impassively, and then chose to reply to the unspoken but obvious criticism, "And your own Legacy research is important also, Henry -- and you are a medical doctor, after all, not a psychiatric specialist."

After Xavier had left the laboratory, McCoy moved over to the monitor on the MedLab, noting absently that Rahne and Douglock had left, listening to his patient's continued low-voiced ramblings in fascinated speculation.

"I would have been so happy to be with you, Nicole... to have you, to love you. You are just like my beloved lost Illyana -- beautiful, oh, so beautiful -- but, oh, so evil inside... The state taught us that absolute good and absolute evil did not exist -- that god and the devil were both only artificial constructs of exploitive Western philosophy. But you are living proof otherwise, a demon whom I cannot yet help loving, wanting..." His hands were busy under the light sheet covering him to his waist, and it wasn't any challenge for the watching medico to guess what he was doing. "Nicole, how can you say such a thing about your brother? You told me that you wanted him to meet me, to hear about my longlost home -- not that you wanted us both together... Brothers and sisters should love each other, yes, as I loved my beautiful demon Illyana, but not that way..."

McCoy made a few notes in his file. There was obviously something going on here, something more than simple exhaustion in reaction to the previous night's trauma. But Moira had flatly refused to discuss Peter's medical records with him, and he had no intention of inviting another such blunt rebuff by contacting the irrascible Scotswoman again for a further consultation. And Professor Xavier had also made clear his disdain for Beast's professional opinion on Peter's mental state just a moment since. His overloaded system attempting to balance the desperate known needs of the many with the possible unknown needs of any one, Hank crossed out his notes, turned off the MedLab monitor and put away the file, to return to his own frustrating and futile research on Legacy.

In contrast to hot, humid Calcutta, the hidden tunnel itself was cool if still moist as it twisted down into the earth, its ominous dark shadows frequently interrupted by sickly green, faintly phosphorescent fungal patches scattered over the rough-hewn walls. With Lockheed flapping along directly overhead, the two Englishmen pushed their way through dismal grey sheets of draping cobwebs. Constantine was oblivious to the details of his surroundings, his senses straining ahead for a glimmer of mystical aura from the talismans he sought. Wisdom was starting to get irritated at all the hackneyed, cliched obstacles. His tolerance for things magical and mystical was just about as low as his opinion of superheroes and their typical antics. None of the denizens appearing in the tunnel were even vaguely human, or even mortal, so Pete dealt with all of them summarily.

As they walked over a living carpet of skittering beetles with shiny black carapaces, scurrying roaches, long-legged arthropods that resembled miniature scorpions, wriggling larvae and other squirming wormy things, a blizzard of tiny hotknives, each about the size of a small dewdrop, fried any which came too close. Sharp spikes came crashing down from the ceiling when they stepped on particular patches of floor; Pete's reflexes were fast enough that his hotknives cut them all off neatly just above head-height, with Lockheed blasting his own way through. Poisonous snakes fell on them from hidden openings; the little alien dragon snatched the welcome snack. Animated skeletons partially covered by putrid flesh under tattered robes and turbans attacked them, waving wickedly-sharp curved swords; Wisdom's hotknives first surgically disarticulated them, then -- when the detached limbs resumed their attack unabated -- incinerated them to more charred grey powder, with Lockheed's enthusiastic assistance.

The stink of the burning skeletons caught John's attention for a moment. "Of course, we should have expected Pretas," he muttered, more to himself than to his two companions. Noting the younger man's glare, he went on to explain, for their benefit, "They're ghosts and evil spirits animating dead bodies and haunting cemeteries."

"Anythin' else we should expect wot you fergot t' mention?" Pete enquired with more than a touch of sarcasm, but John had spaced out again.

Ghastly apparitions came at them from darkened nooks, screeching and wailing, hooked talons extended for rending their victims. Pete was getting really fed up by now, and shot at everything indiscriminately. Those his hotknives were able to burn, Lockheed torched as they writhed across the tunnel floor. Those his hot knives went through without any effect, Wisdom and his useful if somewhat unexpected ally resolutely ignored, and walked or flew right through their illusory presence.

An unruffled Constantine walked along calmly, smoking yet another cigarette, brushing bits of fried demon off his trenchcoat, offering brief identifications whenever Pete poked him in the ribs. "Kshandada-Chara, evil spirits and ghosts who come out at night... Daityas and Danavas, two different breeds of demon-giants -- interesting, they usually don't run together in the same pack... There's a Kravyad, a flesh-eating goblin... Them over there are Bhutas, malignant ghost-imps who haunt crematoria, animate dead bodies and devour deluded mortals..."

The attacks suddenly slackened off as the small tunnel first widened and then opened up into a cavern, staggeringly vast, carved over every inch of its surface out of the solid mass of the bedrock, with a vaulted cathedrallike ceiling, recessed balconies overhanging the granite floor, supported by carved stone pillars and arches that led off to dark side chambers. Mammoth stone statues loomed where rock had been fashioned into elephants, lions, demigods and demons, ornate monstrosities -- half-human, half-animal -- surely born of madness rather than of nature.

At the far end of this subterranean temple of death, they could see an enormous altar and a giant stone statue on the altar, its back to the far wall, standing partly within an enormous domed niche carved into the rock. For an endless moment, they couldn't tear their eyes off the grim goddess of death, destruction and chaos. She stood a dozen feet high, an awesome figure with eight arms who wore a grisly necklace of dessicated, shrunken human heads around her neck and bandoliers of severed human fingers draped across her chest, carved snakes curling up her legs, a skirt of hanging human arms girdling her hips. Dimly glowing blood-red eyes looked out from under matted hair, above blackened fangs twisted in a demonic scowl. In two arms she held the symbols of death: a noose to strangle her victims and a hook to drag them away; in two other arms, she held the symbols of life, a prayer wheel and prayer beads; the fifth and sixth arms held live serpents visibly writhing, and the last two arms seemed to reach out for the intruders.

"See, mate, I told you -- there's Kali," John muttered with a hint of grudging respect, "the hidden patroness of this temple, the malevolent and bloodthirsty goddess worshipped by the thuggee cult -- and the keeper of all their stolen wealth." He waved at the altar, covered solid with enormous gems, gold and silver chains and coins and ingots, carved ivory and ebony and malachite statuettes, jewelled swords and knives, sceptres and crowns.

They crossed the cavern quickly, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Wisdom again grabbed handfuls of jewels and shoveled them into pockets -- pants pockets, shirt pockets, jacket pockets, coat pockets. But he had to stop after just a moment, the weight in his bulging pockets dragging at him, as he stared bemusedly at the masses of wealth remaining and wondered how they could carry off even a miniscule fraction of it.

Constantine was also digging through the heaped riches, also caching handfuls away in his pockets -- but absently, obviously searching for something else. He eventually worked his way around one leg of the statue to the darkened niche behind, and disappeared from Wisdom's view with a gloating cry when he saw a second altar there, covered with old tattered books, scrolls and codices lying among woven-silk strangling cords and unornamented utilitarian daggers, their carved hilts worn smooth with centuries of sweaty-palmed use, their wavy black blades kept razor sharp for sacrificial ceremonies.

"Pete!"

Kitty's voice was the last thing Pete had expected to hear in this place, at this time. He whirled, to see her running toward him across the rough stone floor, her footsteps silent as always, her sweat-soaked teeshirt and tight jeans clinging to her curvaceous figure.

As he braced himself for the inevitable argument about his leaving her behind, she reached him and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly as she showered kisses all over his face, murmuring, "I followed you, but I was so afraid I wouldn't get to you in time. I was so worried about you. He's going to trick you, you know, and give you to Kali so he can get away. Come on, hurry -- we can just leave him here for Kali, like he was going to do to you, and go off by ourselves. Oh, I've missed you so much..." She ignored Lockheed flapping around them, and glued her lips to his before he could respond, her tongue raping his mouth as her hands snaked in under his shirt to rake sharpened fingernails across his back, while her large billowy breasts pressed into his chest and her hips ground against him frantically.

Wisdom gripped her by the upper arms and pushed her away slightly, He slid his hands upward toward her face as he stared at the pouty lips glistening enticingly where her tongue ran over them hungrily, then looked directly into the big, brown, soulless eyes as his hotknives cut her head off at the neck.

He stared down numbly at Kitty's head and body for an agonized long moment, then heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief as the remains wavered and became those of an ancient, stringy-haired, wrinkle-skinned hag, right before a jet of white-hot flame reduced the head and body to crumbly grey ash. As he pulled out a desperately needed cigarette, Pete glanced up to see Lockheed hovering just in front of him. A tiny puff of flame lit his cigarette as the little dragon muttered, "Ya not so stupid, git."

Taking a long drag off his fag, Wisdom made a mental note that he owed Domino another big one. Without her pointed little lesson in the Danger Room the day before, he might have fallen for the deception, but this Kitty had had a figure too good to be true -- rivaling poor sweet Meggan filling that wanker Braddock's fantasies -- and empty, dead eyes. Then he jumped, startled out of his reverie by Constantine's interested "Mohini the enchantress..."

Drawn by his companion's voice, Pete went around to the back of the idol, where he found the other Englishman had taken off his ratty old tan trenchcoat and spread it on the stone floor, and was carefully wrapping the books and scrolls and codices and sacrificial implements in it. "Fine fer you, mate, but how're we goin' t' move all th' rest o' this shite?"

John straightened up, holding the awkward-shaped bundle his coat made folded around the cult's mystical library, the sleeves tied together to help keep the package shut. "Never mind that yet. First, we need to dig out the two rubies in Kali's eyes."

As they emerged from the dark, dank little alcove behind the statue, Wisdom gestured at the masses of jewels covering the altar. "You want rubies, there's more 'n enough t' pick from right here without gettin' in that horror's face."

"Nah, you don't get it." Constantine shook his head impatiently. "The deal was, you help me get all the magic loot. An' her eyes, they're the Flames of Bharaptur. Just as powerful as Chandra-Kanta, the diamond from the head of Chandra the moongod, see, or Chinta-Mani, the wishstone belonging to Brahma."

That earned him a dirty look from the black-haired former agent but Pete knew he'd trapped himself, first by asking for the other's help and then by agreeing to his proposition. "Right, then, leave off them soddin' how-to books an' get over here." He positioned a reluctant Constantine leaning against one of the idol's thick legs, and swarmed up his partner's back, grunting with the effort and ignoring John's pained protests. Then he started up the giant statue itself, the girdle of severed arms and the bandoliers of severed fingers providing good hand- and footholds as Wisdom moved ever higher, to reach up toward the idol's face with one hand while the other wrapped around its neck to hold his weight, wincing at the fetid odor from the lank, blood-stiff hair next to his face.

His fingers had just touched one glowing, red-faceted eye, when Pete heard John shout, "Look out!" Instinct had him throwing himself backward off the idol even as he finally registered the arms creakily moving toward him. He twisted in mid-air to fire a barrage of hot-knives, which had no effect on the black goddess herself -- but did at least destroy the noose and hook, serpents, prayer wheel and prayer beads she still held, leaving the animated idol unarmed if unharmed -- then landed on the hard stone floor with a loud yelp of pain, still firing hot-knives at the seemingly impervious figure now stepping down from her altar in pursuit.

Scrabbling to his feet, Wisdom shot off a few more hot-knives. His aim was true. The idol's garb of shriveled, dessicated heads and fingers and arms all caught fire, as did the greasy matted hair, but the monstrous figure didn't even pause and just kept coming at the small dark man now fleeing through the enormous cavern. His mind racing even faster than his feet, Pete headed for the small side-chambers carved into the sides and dove into the first one he reached. Once inside, he struggled to catch his breath even as he heaved a sign of relief that the secondary chambers were interconnected, and that the overhead balconies dropped low enough to hamper his towering pursuer's mobility.

Running a mazelike course through the alcoves and chapels and crypts lining the cavern walls, his first hope was to find a staircase up to the balconies -- a nice *narrow* staircase. But there was no sign of one. As he listened to the booming racket of the idol banging into the walls and ceiling repeatedly in its lumbering pursuit, the flagging Wisdom reflected dourly that there was no sign of Constantine, either. "Soddin' pisshead wanker, found hisself a nice bleedin' hidey-hole," he grumbled, wheezing, even as he had to admit that he really couldn't expect anything different. "Leaves me fer MacTaggert's friggin' grannie's bloody supper..."

With no stairs upward, the desperate quarry decided he had to try something else before he became completely exhausted. Picking his spot carefully, Pete ran out into the main cavern, where he turned and stopped. Gathering all his remaining strength, he shot off the biggest blast he could manage just as the smoking black death goddess began emerging from the alcoves in his wake. His shot sliced neatly through the elaborately carved pillar at which he'd aimed, bringing the balcony down in a stone avalanche burying most of the idol.

He approached slowly, gingerly, only to see the statue twisting in a determined effort to wriggle out from the pile of debris. As he looked around to see what else he could topple down onto the animated figure, he heard a shout. "The eyes, Pete! Get out the bloody eyes an' it's over!" Following Constantine's somewhat belated instructions, he dashed over and frantically tried to pry out one of the rubies. Just as he got it out and threw it spinning away down the cavern floor, the idol got an arm free and knocked him aside. Then Lockheed zoomed down, locked all four paws and wrapped his tail around the remaining ruby and yanked hard, backpedalling furiously with his wings.

Continued in Part 7 Reconciliation
Back at the mansion, and the end for now...