CHAPTER 201 – THE VANISHING SCENT
Logan leaned against the open fridge door, a cold beer in one hand, the light spilling across the kitchen tiles. He cracked the cap with his thumb, foam hissing up. He took one long drag, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he froze.
"Hell…"
The beer didn't matter anymore. His nose twitched, senses sharpening like knives.
'That smell. The kid's smell. Peter's little sister. One second strong as morning bread, next second gone like smoke in the wind. Smells don't just vanish. Not for me.'
He shut the fridge with his boot, the glass rattling inside. He padded quietly down the hall, beer still in his fist. He tracked it—Illyana's soft, sweet scent, the kind that clung to dolls and crayons. It led him out the back door, through the cool night air, into the garden.
And then—nothing.
It stopped cold.
Logan crouched, sniffed the soil, the roses, the air. Nothing. Just gone.
'How the hell does a child disappear into thin air? No trail, no fade-out, no damn clue. Either someone masked her, or…'
He took three steps forward. The world twisted. The garden blinked out.
When his eyes opened, the air was red, thick, burning like rust in the lungs. The ground beneath him cracked black and crimson, and the walls weren't walls at all but shifting caverns, twisting like snakes.
He growled. "This ain't Westchester anymore."
He inhaled—no Illyana scent. Just ash, brimstone, and blood. But deep beneath that—soul-scent. Not of the body, but of the spirit. And he caught it. Thin, fragile, but real.
"Hang on, doll. I'm comin'."
Logan moved, claws ready. The caves pulsed with heat. From the shadows crawled things that weren't human. Demons.
The first leapt at him, long tongue lashing, claws dripping. He sidestepped, claws flashing. One slash—head rolling, body twitching. The second, bigger, horned like a bull, slammed him into a wall. Ribs cracked. Logan roared, stabbed upward through its skull. Brains splattered the rock.
He staggered up, healing kicking in. He muttered, "Hell sure knows how to throw a welcome party."
The deeper he went, the worse they came. Some fell easy—slashes, quick thrusts. Others… Logan had to trade flesh for flesh. One gutted his shoulder, another sank fangs into his thigh. He fought on, blood steaming, rage keeping him upright.
He smelled the soul-scent again. And something else—familiar. A memory that should've been impossible.
He followed it. Through twisting halls, past a river of fire, to a chamber. There, waiting, cloaked in shadows, was an old woman. White hair, long and tangled. Skin wrinkled, but eyes—those eyes were stormcloud gray.
Logan froze. His stomach dropped.
"Storm…?"
The woman turned, smiled faintly. Her voice was cracked but warm. "I am not your Storm, Wolverine. And you are not my Logan."
He took a step back, claws half-raised. "What the hell happened to you?"
She looked around, gaze lingering on the red horizon. "This place. Limbo. Time flows strange here. I am what your Ororo could become. My X-Men died here. I… lived on."
Logan spat, shook his head. "This is too damn crazy. I'm no philosopher. Just tell me straight—where's the kid?"
Her smile faltered. "Belasco has her. He seeks to mold her, as he once tried with me. To make her his disciple."
"Belasco," Logan growled. "Figures. Smells like the kind who deserves three claws through the skull."
She stepped closer, pressed a small pendant into his palm. Cold metal, faintly glowing. "This will open a path out, for you and the girl. Take it. Save her."
Logan curled his hand around it. "And you? You comin'?"
She shook her head. "I have no place left in your world. And someone must hold him here. If he escapes… the suffering won't end."
His jaw tightened. "You're talkin' suicide, Ro. Even if you're not my Storm… I don't like leavin' ya."
Her eyes softened. "Think of the girl. Think of Peter. Would you tell him you let his sister rot here?"
Logan snarled, turned his face away. He hated that she was right.
She drew herself tall. "I will face Belasco. You—save her. That is our bargain."
And then she left, striding toward the heart of Limbo, her cloak billowing like thunderclouds.
Logan clenched the pendant in one hand, claws in the other. "Alright, old girl. I'll play my part."
He tracked Illyana's soul-scent again. Through narrow tunnels, past twisted faces carved into the rock. He slid into stealth, body sinking into that tiger-born trick. His presence faded. No heat, no scent. Just a shadow walking.
And there—there she was.
Illyana. But not the little doll he knew. Not the seven-year-old with braids. She stood taller, face sharper, a girl of thirteen.
Logan's heart sank. "Damn it. What did he do to you, kid?"
But there was no time for shock. Belasco loomed in the distance, distracted by Storm's challenge. Logan acted fast. He darted forward, grabbed Illyana, pulled her tight.
"Don't scream, kid. I'm gettin' you out."
Her wide eyes met his, confusion and terror tangled together.
Logan slammed the pendant into the ground. A circle of light ripped open beneath them. Belasco roared, spinning toward them.
Storm shouted, flinging black fire at him, her voice echoing, "GO!"
Logan and Illyana dropped through the light.
The last thing Logan heard was Belasco's scream of rage—and Storm's laughter, fierce and unbroken.
Then—grass. Cool air. Moonlight.
Logan blinked. He was back in the mansion garden. Illyana limp in his arms, older, changed, but alive.
He muttered, "Kid, I don't know how the hell I'm gonna explain this to your brother."
He carried her inside, heart heavy.