It was too dark to see initially, so he had to wait for his eyes to adjust as he raised himself to his hands and knees. But he didn't need to wait; the darkness only became slightly grey, and that was all. There were no sources of light, and, from what he could make out in the dimness, no way to get in or out either. He could see
that he was in a room made of stone, tall and narrow, like he was trapped in a tower.

He knew from the way he could feel the chill, humid air on his skin that he was naked, and for some reason the hair on his head felt longer. He had no idea why any of this was this way, but he knew he wasn't going to stick around and find out.

As he struggled to stand up - his legs felt oddly weak and rubbery - he attempted to pop his claws, only to find he couldn't. He just twitched muscles in his arms, and couldn't understand why it wasn't working. Somebody had done something to him ... what had they done?

He'd only gone a few steps when his knees gave way and he collapsed to the hard stone, landing on his hands and knees. What was the point anyways? If he couldn't pop his claws, he couldn't cut his way out of here, and he still didn't see a door or a window he could force. How did they put him in here? Was he dropped through a trapdoor in the ceiling?

He sat back on his haunches and looked for the smallest deviation in the light. He then realized he smelled water even more strongly now, and saw, maybe three meters in front of him, a deeper patch of dark on the floor. It was circular, maybe four feet in diameter, and as he crept closer to it, he could see it had the slightest shimmer. A mirror? No, what fucking sense would a mirror in the floor make?

As he came up to it, he saw it was a puddle of water. But it looked fathomless for a mere puddle, a pool of liquid darkness that seemed impossibly deep. He tried to see his reflection, but all he could see was a faint glimmer of orange. It grew brighter, and he realized it was the shape of something in the water - something like fire. But how could fire exist in water?

It got bigger and brighter, almost forming a shape, and just as soon as he realized it was coming up at a rapid rate, part of it burst through the water. It was like an arm of flame, and before he could react it grabbed him by the throat ...

He jolted awake and found himself face down on dirt stinking of his own blood. The air was warm and dry, redolent of decaying flesh, cordite, and old blood. He remembered now.

"Logan, you back?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah." He shoved himself up to his knees, and felt mud on his face, which he wiped off. The burning of his throat had subsided, and he reached up to feel how bad the gash was now.

What gash? It was closed completely now, the blood on his skin starting to get as tacky as paste.

Logan looked around, and found the ground was littered with corpses. Some were still moving around, but they couldn't get up, and that was a major hindrance as far as fighting went. "No more reinforcements?"

"Not yet."

"Let's get out of here before they show up." Logan got to his feet, riding out a major head rush - the wound was healed, but his blood volume hadn't returned to its usual level. Still, he managed to stagger back to the jeep without Marc's help.

Marcus jumped in the driver's seat, but looked at Logan speculatively. "What?" He snapped irritably.

From the way he looked at him, he assumed he gazed at his neck first. "It's freaky, that's all. Slit throats usually kill everything with a functioning circulatory system."

"I ain't normal."

"I know. Lucky you."

"Funny how I don't feel that way." He still rubbed his neck, and considered his "dream". That was the thing that
interrupted his dream back in Baltimore, wasn't it?

"So how many more things do you think demon Jean - other demon Jean - will throw in our path?" He started the jeep and drove out of the valley of the damned as fast as the vehicle would allow - and over zombies, some living, some already in pieces. If he didn't know better, he'd think Marc was aiming for the living ones.

"Everything it can get its hands on. Got enough ammo?"

"I left the pack back at the house. All I got is three clips left on me."

"Three? Where the fuck did you keep 'em?" Marc was only wearing his sleeveless khaki "safari" shirt and matching walking shorts, and his hiking boots fit too well to even hold his smallest gun, although Logan was roughly sure he had kept at least one of them there.

Marcus gave him a grin that he knew meant a smart ass remark was forthcoming. "Really wanna know?"

"Forget it." He moved his head from side to side, listening to his neck creak, and wondered what that fire thing was supposed to mean.

The landscape was nothing more than an orangish-brown blur as Marcus took them towards the Plain of Night as fast as the jeep would take them. It was almost the color of the fire thing that kept invading his dreams. What the fuck was it? And why did it seem ... familiar somehow?

"What are you thinkin' about?" Marcus asked, shouting to be heard over the wind.

He shook his head, and wasn't going to tell him, but he did anyways. "Somethin' keeps invadin' my dreams."

"Something?"

"It's like ... an energy thing, fiery, but not on fire. If that makes sense."

"One of these demi-demons?"

"No, it started happening before we came here."

"Could it be Bob?"

"No. He just walks into my dreams and takes them over as easy as a professional party crasher, and he never shows up in his true form. And it's the wrong color anyways."

"His true form?"

Logan shrugged. "He's like this blue energy thing."

Even though Marc's eyes were still hidden behind his black goggles, he knew just from the way he arched his eyebrow at him that he was staring at him in a mixture of shock and disbelief. "You're shitting me. He's a blue energy thing?"

"I told ya a body was optional with him," he pointed out testily. Bob wasn't the point of this thing - the only thing he knew for sure was Bob wasn't involved with this. "And the fireball thing in my dreams is sort of orange red."

"Fireball?"

"I'm not sure what shape it is, really. It's hard to see, and even harder to remember." Even now he was having difficulty remembering it. It had grabbed him by the throat, hadn't it? Like it had a hand ... and he would swear he felt the residual burn when he came to on the ground. But that was his own healing factor finishing up closing the wound. Wasn't it?

Was it trying to hurt him or help him?

"What does it do exactly?"

"Nothing ... I mean, I'm not sure. I think it's tryin' to communicate with me .... or at least tell me somethin'."

"What? 'Put me out'?"

He scowled at him, even though Marc had turned his attention back to driving. Since he wasn't on a road, it was a bit more complicated. "No. But I don't know what it is tryin' to say. It's ... weird."

"Since when is weird new to you?"

Okay, he had him there. "It's the principal of the thing. I don't like somethin'  barging around my mind and not explaining itself."

Marcus was quiet for a moment. "You're a complicated dude."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"If something was in my head, I'd want it out. I wouldn't give a flyin' fuck about its agenda."

"Yeah well ... I've been around Bob too long."

He knew they had reached the Plain of Night by the feeling alone - it was like his skin was trying to crawl off his body and hide under the seat. Marc must have felt it too, as he brought the jeep to a skidding halt in the center of the field, scraping up divots of dying yellow grass.

"Wow. Could this place give off more bad vibes?" Marc asked, killing the engine. He pulled out his HK, which was presumably still loaded, and held it with the barrel pointed up at the pale sky as he got out of the jeep.

"I doubt it." He jumped out of the jeep, braced for anything - or so he liked to think. Truth be told, he had no idea if he was ready for anything.

"It's difficult when desire and resentment get mixed together, isn't it?" Jean said, leaning against one of the palm trees. It was the more realistic one, the one who'd had his throat cut.

From the way Marc's spine stiffened, he saw her too, but he didn't aim his gun, knowing it was useless.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He snapped, although part of him didn't want to know.

She gave him that same sad smile she gave him before the zombie slit his throat. "You know, Logan. You also know the others are lying to you - they won't bring her back."

"And you will?" Marc replied dubiously.

"No, of course not," she replied, in a mildly scolding voice. "We don't make deals like that."

"You just use squidwards to do your dirty work, and slit throats," Logan shot back.

She fixed him with those hypnotic cinnamon eyes, and he did his best to resist their pull. "One does what one has to to survive. I know you understand that."

He knew that was a dig of some sort, but he wasn't about to acknowledge it. "Will you let us go? Will you let us just walk outta here?"

"It's not quite that simple."

"No, of course not." Logan sighed, wishing he was surprised.

"We are not strong enough to hold them off, outside our limited circle of influence," she explained. "Our abilities do not extend beyond the perimeter."

"But theirs does?" Marc said. It really wasn't a question; it just sounded like it.

"There are more of them than us," she said, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did.

"So what happens if we remove the seal? Do they destroy you?" He asked. She did say they did what they had to do to survive.

She glanced down at the ground diffidently, and walked away from the tree, hands clasped behind her back. She had her uniform jacket zipped up, and her cleavage seemed more realistic. "It's possible."

"You don't know?"

"We don't wish to find out." Well, he had to give her that. She glanced at them, and her look, although not unkind, was much sterner than before. "You understand we cannot let you go farther."

"Gonna cut our throats?" Marc snapped.

She had the decency to feign a wince. "We don't wish to harm you - "

"But it ain't gonna stop ya," Logan interrupted, disgusted. "Be a creep or don't. Don't give us this half-hearted bullshit. At least we know the other Jean wants to suck our energy out or whatever the fuck. Be honest if nothing else."

"I am being honest," she insisted, with a sort of wounded dignity. "Our people started out as protectors, not killers."

Marcus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the hood of the jeep. He was still holding his gun, probably in preparation for zombies. "So what happened?"

She shrugged, and made a helpless gesture with her hands. "Some of our kind got tempted with a darker power."

"Ah shit, Luke - didn't Yoda warn us about this?" Marc asked him sarcastically.

Logan gave him a skeptical look. "Everybody knows I'm Han Solo."

"More like Chewbacca with that hair," he fired back, giving him a smart ass grin. Logan flipped him the bird.

Jean looked between them uncomprehendingly. "I don't understand."

"Human shit," Logan said dismissively. "So they got pulled over to the dark side, and started sucking energy out of Humans, animals, insects - anything they could reach?"

She hesitated. "That's a simplistic version. But yes, basically."

"And that's too bad for you sister, but we just wanna get outta here," Logan pointed out impatiently. "Not only are all the mutants here - besides us - dead, so is the whole fuckin' country. You guys wanna keep fighting your little war? Fine. But leave us the fuck out of it!"

Once again this earned him a pitying, patronizing look. Even though it was on Jean's face, he wanted to rip it off with his claws."It's too late. You're the only way they can remove the seal."

"And you'll kill us to stop it." Marcus said flatly.

She turned the pity look on him. "I'm - "

"If you apologize one more time, I'm gonna shove that fucking seal up your ass," Logan snapped. "We don't wanna remove that seal, we don't trust those fucks, but since you cut my fuckin' throat we don't trust you either. And don't fucking say you're sorry!"

She seemed a little bewildered. "You will work for them - if not voluntarily, then involuntarily. It's too much of a risk."

He really did want to hurt this Jean. The fact that she cut his throat probably was the main thorn in his paw. "Why not work with us? You wanna keep them trapped here? Fine, so do we. We will help you. Or we would have if you hadn't tried to slice my head off."

"Is there some way we can use the  seal against them?" Marcus asked. " Like a weapon?"

She shook her head. "I don't see how."

"What about the other seals?" Logan suggested. "Can we put them back?"

"The oil drilling equipment destroyed them."

"Can we get new ones?" He continued. "Make them somehow. Bob knew this conjuring shit. Don't you?"

She didn't look at him but through him, pondering that question carefully. "We are not ..." She paused. "We can't do that."

"What about us?" Logan asked, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't nervous, he just wanted to do something. Being helpless was the worst feeling in the world, and he'd already experienced it enough in his life. "Could we ... I don't know, replace 'em somehow?"

That made the Jean thing frown, and Marcus scoffed. "What? How the fuck we do that, Logan? Ain't either of us Gandolf."

Logan reached into his pocket, and pulled out the cell phone, holding it up for Jean's edification. "Just get me an outside line for a few minutes, and I can get ahold of someone who knows how to put your seals back in place."

She gave him a dubious look, biting her lower lip in a strangely human gesture that was deeply unnerving.

"Think Wes has the goods to handle this?" Marcus asked, sounding a little doubtful himself.

Logan shook his head. He'd gotten the idea from his "dream", or whatever the fuck it was, or at least he thought he had. It was the idea of the water, the idea that somehow he could not see his own reflection in it; the water had not been a mirror. And that was the key - mirror. "No. But he can contact someone who can."

"You gonna let me in?" Marc wondered.

"I can't call Bob," he admitted. "But no one said I couldn't call in his family."

Although he had a feeling he'd be just as sorry he did.

14

Well, in a manner of speaking. He cursed him out for scaring him shitless ( not his term, but it was obvious ), and admitted he'd been trying to find a spellcaster who could help at a distance. "That's kinda why I called," Logan admitted, after he caught him up on things as best he could. "I know one, but you're gonna have to call her for me, 'cause I don't know her number."

Wes paused, for so long it was almost comical. "What am I, a phone book?"

Logan sighed, and sunk back into the hot leather seat. He decided to sit back down in the jeep for this call, as he was still tired from blood loss. In fact, he felt like he could sleep for days, but he knew now was not the time or place - not if he didn't want that fire bird thing showing up again. Marcus was sitting on the jeep's hood, still holding on to his gun, and keeping a wary eye out on seemingly everything, but focusing most intensely on the Jean thing, still loitering at the tree line, watching them with an almost clinical curiosity, head cocked to one side as if she was eavesdropping on the conversation. "Look, she's a grand-daughter ... or maybe great-grand daughter, I don't know ... of Bob's. Bob seemed to think she was a powerful witch, and after having seen her in action, I think he had a point." She was there on Dis, wasn't she? Fighting old what's his name, the guy with the sharp head, and even though he was a returned from the dead black magician, Bob seemed to think she was more than powerful enough to bring down his magic - and she had been, hadn't she? Storm's lightning bolts didn't break through the cave walls first; Amaranth had to bring down the magical "forcefield" protecting the place first. And then she put him and Bob back in their right bodies after they'd gotten switched somehow. Then later, Amaranth had brought him half way across the world, only to send him into another dimension. She was definitely Bob's "girl" all right - she wasn't just powered, she was superpowered. "Her name is Amaranth ... well, I don't know her last name. Could be Oberon, but probably isn't. She lives somewhere in Sydney, I think."

"Amaranth?" Wesley repeated. "Like the myth?"

He scowled up at the pale blue sky. "What myth?"

"An amaranth was a supposedly immortal flower. Its blooms would never die." Wes thought a moment, and then said, "You're sure she's powerful? Even a witch of some standing would have difficulty handling a mystical sinkhole, nonetheless the beings your describing. Especially if they are demi-gods of some sort."

"Yeah, well, Ammy's got quite a bit of Bob in her, and enough attitude for about four other people. I think she can take it." She could probably chew tin cans and spit out nails. The phrase "tough broad" was invented specifically for women like her, but it was probably best not said to their face for that very same reason.

"She isn't in the Melbourne Spellcasters Union, is she?"

Logan knew he couldn't see his reaction, but that didn't keep him from being nonplussed. "They have a union now?"

"Yes," Wesley replied, as if it was common knowledge. "I know the head wizard."

Under any other circumstances, that would have been funny. "I have no fuckin' idea if she's joined up. Maybe you should ask him."

"I will," he agreed. Wes did know he was being sarcastic, didn't he? "Does she have the blood?"

"Huh?" Not only did that not make sense, but it was also familiar somehow. Logan would have sworn he'd heard someone - Kumiho ? - say something about Bob and his blood. Wes hadn't said his blood, though, he'd said "the blood", like it was something special ... beyond being cobalt blue. And that's when it finally hit him - it wasn't really his blood he was talking about, but his lineage - his power. Did Amaranth have "the blood" - the blood of a god in her veins. Which would make her ... oh holy fucking shit, it would make her a demi-god, wouldn't it? Just like these fucking Santo Marco clowns. Only she didn't have their restrictions, did she? "Now that you mention it, I think she does."

"I would hope so. I'd hate to send someone into a mystical sinkhole without the power to defend themselves."

"Trust me, she kicks some serious ass - she's Australian. Just find her, and tell her there are some jag offs around here dissing her granddad and her family in general."

"Do you think that will work?" Wesley sounded almost more amused than curious.

"You know Bob and his family. The one connecting thread is they're all fucking nuts." Logan heard a burst of static across the line, and knew the time the second Jean thing had bought him had just been used up. "Good luck."

He then shut the phone, and hesitated to put it back in his pocket. The shirt he wore was drenched in his blood, and if that and the metallic smell of it wasn't bad enough, the heat of the day was baking it on him, making it stick to his skin, making him itch. He'd been hoping there was a spare shirt in here somewhere, but no such luck. "Head's up," he shouted to Marc, and tossed him the phone back. Marc caught it neatly in one hand, and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

"Think she'll show?"

"She'll show," Logan assured him, getting out of the jeep. The combination of the overbearing sun beating down on them and blood loss made him feel sluggish. There was a canteen of ( now lukewarm ) water in the glove box, and he gulped half of it down, grimacing at its slightly plastic aftertaste. It had been sitting in the canteen, and in the heat of the compartment, for too damn long.

Finally at his wit's end, he peeled off the bloody shirt and threw it on the ground. "I don't suppose you could at least conjure me up a shirt, could ya?" He asked peevishly, pouring the rest of the canteen on his itchy chest and stomach, and tried to slough off the drying blood with his free hand. It helped a little, but not much. He really had bled out like a stuck pig. If any of the flies were still alive, they'd probably have been all over him.

"I still can't believe you got up and walked away from that," Marcus commented, watching him out of the corner of his goggles.

"It should have killed you," Jean noted, with an empty dispassion. "It should kill anyone."

He glared at her, dropping the empty canteen on the ground. "Hey sweetheart, we're mutants. Some of us ain't that easy to kill."

"Some more than others," Marcus noted wryly.

Logan wished he had some more water left to pour on the back of his neck. It was probably about a hundred degrees, and the exceedingly dry heat seemed to have evaporated the water before it could hit the ground.

"We didn't count on you having more friends in high places," Jean said.

He looked at her curiously. "What does that mean?"

She just gazed back him guilelessly, like she thought it was a rhetorical question. Was it?

Before he could ask, Logan caught a familiar scent on the hot, anemic wind - even over the cloying smell of his own blood - and took a good, hard look at the landscape around them. Marcus must have noticed his increased scrutiny, because he asked, "We got company?"

He nodded. "Apparently we didn't kill all the zombies."

Jean look at a nothing point on the horizon, just over his shoulder. "They know."

They didn't need to ask her who she meant, or what they knew, because that was obvious.

As the zombies started to shamble over the horizon, Marcus slammed an ammo clip into a second gun, and said, "Locked and loaded. Want one?"

Logan shook his head. "I'm a blade man."

"Can you fight?" Marcus asked the Jean thing.

She looked startled by the question. "We can't fight them."

"But you can control the zombies, we know that," Logan pointed out. When he popped his claws, she jumped slightly, as if not expecting that. Well, she had seen them, hadn't she? She knew he had them. Did she think he was gonna try and use them on her? ( There was an idea... ) "Can't you make 'em back off?"

She stared off at nothing for a moment, then shook her head. "No."

Marc slid off the jeep's hood, holding a gun in each hand. "Can you at least slit their throats?"

She grimaced and looked away, as if deeply embarrassed. Logan almost felt bad for her, although not quite. "Can you keep the other ones from fucking up our senses?"

"We can try," she said, with little conviction.

Logan braced himself as he turned to face the oncoming zombie army, and hoped he'd regenerated enough of his blood volume that he wouldn't be slow.

It was then that he felt something in the air, like the spaces between the atoms were trembling, and the Jean thing backed up into the trees, a leery look on her face. The atmosphere felt charged, the moment before the lightning strike.

Logan spun to face the threat as it seemed to pop right out of thin air. A young woman was suddenly just standing there, barefoot, wearing leopard print boxer shorts and an oversized black tank top with the words "What are you staring at?" emblazoned across the front in broken red letters. Her bright blue hair - matching her bright blue eyes and anoxic blue lips - was a mess, as if she just came in from a tornado. "All right, who's the gobshite talkin' smack about Bob?" She snapped, turning her annoyed gaze straight on him. If she even noticed his exposed claws, she didn't give a shit.

Amaranth had arrived.

15

"This is her?" Marcus said curiously. He'd had his guns trained on her, but quickly changed the aim. Good thing for him too.

Amaranth turned her sharp blue gaze on him. "And who are you supposed to be? Wesley Snipes?"

"Ooh," he said, feigning being wounded. "You got out of the wrong side of bed, didn't you?"

"And who are the berks that got me outta bed?" She shot back, then looked Logan over once more, taking her time. "Do you ever wear a shirt?"

Marcus burst out laughing, and Logan just glared straight back at her. He was going to ask her if she ever looked in a mirror after she got dressed - although obviously they had gotten her out of bed - but Marcus found his voice enough to say, "Well, he's got to show off his fabulous tits."

Amaranth almost smirked, and Logan shifted his death stare to Marc, who simply chuckled. "Well, you do man. You got a chest you could eat dinner off of .... well, if you don't mind the hair gettin' between your teeth."

"Shut up before I kill you," he warned, which just made Marc laugh harder.

When he turned back to Ammy, she was staring at Jean, who seemed to be shrinking from her spotlight gaze. "And what are you supposed to be?" She asked the Jean thing, obviously seeing through her guise.

"We are the protectors of this land," the Jean thing said, standing ramrod straight, assuming an air of dignity. She was pretending she had never been scared of Amaranth ... but she had been, hadn't she? And it wasn't just the shock of her popping up in the middle of the mystical sinkhole, which probably would have been off limits to most - something about her backed the Jean thing off. That boded well for the rest of this.

Amaranth snorted derisively. "Are you now? You've made a dog's breakfast of it, haven't ya?"

Jean looked puzzled, and Logan really couldn't help her, although he was pretty sure that was bad.

"Look here, sister, I don' appreciate bein' pulled outta bed to close up somethin' that you've ballsed up. You're doin' my block, and I just met ya, so stay the fuck back unless you want me to job you. Right?"

"I almost understood that," Marc commented. It wasn't just the Australian slang, which was probably bad enough on its own; Amaranth had a thick accent. Not an "acceptable" Aussie accent, like Mel Gibson or Nicole Kidman - Ammy had one so dense you could stand a butter knife up in it; it was almost Cockney. If she ever starred in a movie for the American market, it would need subtitles.

Amaranth suddenly turned around, and pointed an accusing finger. "Now you, ratbag - "

"Hey!" He knew what that meant at least.

" - I don't want you thinkin' you can ring me every time you get stuck up the gum tree. Maybe Granddad puts up with it, but I won't."

"If I remember correctly, didn't you once pull me out of New York and make me go look for Bob?" He snapped right back. Admittedly, he didn't want to tangle with Ammy: no matter that she was probably twenty at the oldest, shorter than him, and a slip of a girl at that, she exuded a natural power and authority that any general leading his troops into war would have killed for. She may have had the dress sense of a glue sniffer, and the attitude of a hardened ex-con, but she didn't make false promises. If she said she could do your ass, she could, in spades.

Her neon blue eyes - so much like Bob's - narrowed suspiciously. "Are you sayin' I owe you?"

Apparently that was fighting words with her. "No, but it'd even the slate, wouldn't it?"

"Uh, guys, hate to break up the international incident, but we got zombie town on our zero and closing fast." Marcus interjected. Indeed, there was an even larger zombie scrimmage line than before, maybe fifty or so, and some of them carried the automatic weapons of the security staff. They weren't fucking around this time.

Amaranth made that derisive noise again, and said, "I'll give 'em the flick." She then said something in a language that Logan didn't understand ( but was pretty sure it was a language he'd heard Bob use before ), and held out her hand towards the zombie front. Logan expected something to shoot from her hand, but nothing did.

The zombies froze, and suddenly all crumbled to dust, their bodies shattering into piles of dirt. The weapons they were carrying all hit the ground with a dull thud.

"Whoa!" Marc exclaimed, equally surprised and impressed. "What the fuck did you do to 'em, girl?"

She gave him a hard stare. Logan guessed she didn't like being called "girl", even if it was meant affectionately. "I returned them to earth. If they hadn't been reanimated by some drongo, they'd have been turnin' to dirt anyways."

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," Marc mused, swallowing a chuckle.

Logan noticed Amaranth had a tattoo when the neck of her tank top shifted slightly. It was a small chevron shaped blue flame, close to where her heart would be - assuming she had a heart in the usual Human place. What was with all the fire symbolism? What was it trying to tell him?