Chapter 217: Paths in the Garden
Logan woke to the faint crackle of morning rain on the roof. The mansion smelled like coffee, toast, and…something sharper. Not food. Not smoke. Something restless.
He sat up, lit a cigar, and let the smoke curl through his nostrils like a hunter tasting the air. The scent sharpened. Soul-scent. Ororo. And she stank not of storm or rain, but of conflict. It clung to her, sour under the perfume of her garden.
"Guess the goddess can bleed after all," Logan muttered, pulling on his shirt.
He padded barefoot through the halls, past the clatter of breakfast in the kitchen, until he climbed the creaking steps into the attic greenhouse.
Storm stood at the window, wrapped in white silk, her silver hair glowing against the dawn. She didn't turn. Her hands gripped the sill like it might fly away.
Logan leaned on the doorframe. "Why the black face, darlin'? Sun's up, birds chirpin', and you're lookin' like you're at your own funeral."
Storm glanced over her shoulder. "Logan." Her voice was soft, almost guilty. Then her eyes slid back to the horizon. "When I fought Callisto…"
"Mm. Knife fight queen of the mole people. I recall." He exhaled smoke slow, waiting.
"I wanted only to feint. To press the knife as cover while I found an opening. To render her unconscious with stealth, not with blood." Storm's grip tightened on the wood until her knuckles whitened. "But my body…bleeding, beaten…some thought overtook me. I drove the blade through her heart. Not mercy. Not control. Instinct. Rage. Does that make me filthy, Logan? Am I…dirty now?"
Logan crossed the room, boots silent on the wood. He stood in front of her, close enough she had to meet his eyes. "If defendin' yourself is dirty, 'Ro, then what the hell am I? I'm a mud pit with claws."
Storm's lips trembled, but her shoulders held taut.
Logan scowled, then suddenly grabbed her cheeks with both hands and squished them, puffing her lips out like a blowfish. "Look at me, goddess. No dodgin'."
Her eyes widened, then narrowed in indignation, but she didn't pull back.
"Two paths," Logan said, voice gravel but steady. "First path—Storm. Leader of the X-Men. Leader of the Morlocks. In this job, you will kill, whether you mean to or not. Intent don't change the blood on your hands."
He let go of her face, but stayed close.
"Second path—Ororo. Free spirit. Goddess of the wind. Lover of life. If you're her, then stabbin' Callisto was wrong. But here's the kicker—you ain't crossed the line yet. Callisto lived. So you're standin' with a foot on both paths, and you still got the chance to choose which one you wanna walk. My job ain't to decide for you. My job's just to point 'em out."
Storm's breath hitched. She blinked back wetness in her eyes. Then a small, grateful smile touched her lips. "You always surprise me, Logan."
He smirked. "That so?"
But then her face hardened. Her nose wrinkled. "Did you think I would not notice?"
Logan tilted his head. "Notice what?"
"Your cigar." Her hands flared, and with a sudden gust she hurled him backward out the attic window.
"Wha—" Logan crashed through the open frame, hit the garden dirt with a grunt, and rolled. His cigar went flying.
"Out!" Storm shouted down, her voice thundering like the skies themselves. "You and your smoke endanger my precious plant children!"
Logan groaned, pushing himself up, dirt in his hair. "Ouch. My old back." He dusted off and shouted up, "Ya use me for yer therapy session and then toss me like last week's garbage? What kinda broad does that?"
A curtain swished closed. No answer.
Logan shook his head, muttering. "Women. Weather witches, no less." He stalked back into the mansion, heading for the kitchen. Beer was what he needed now.
The fridge clunked open, cold air washing over him. He was just twisting the cap off when—
"Logan!" Kitty's voice, high and urgent, called from the garden.
Logan sighed, already regretting not leaving the mansion yesterday. "What now, half-pint?"
"There's a letter for you!"
"Then fetch it," Logan said around his bottle.
Kitty grinned, already holding her hand out. "Lockheed, delivery boy mode!"
The little purple dragon zipped through the air, envelope clutched delicately in his teeth. He landed on Logan's shoulder with a soft fwip.
Logan patted the dragon's head. "Good lizard." He took the letter, tore it open with one claw, and scanned the page.
His jaw clenched. The smell of ink and bad memories hit his nose. His hand crushed the paper before he even realized it, veins bulging in his forearm.
Kitty frowned. "Logan? What's wrong?"
He snatched his jacket off the chair and shrugged into it, face stone. "Japan."
"Japan?" Kitty's voice wavered. "Why—"
"Not your problem, kid." His tone was final, the growl beneath it leaving no room for more.
He stalked toward the door, cigar already between his teeth again.
Kitty called after him. "At least tell the Professor where you're going!"
But Logan didn't look back. The mansion's hall swallowed his figure, the only trace of him the faint smell of smoke and the crushed paper left in the trash.