Well, in theory, she could. But there were several problems: first of which was finding Logan's minds among all these others. Not hard, because his mind was very peculiar: it was like a broken mirror with several shards glued back in to place, but shards from different mirrors, so they didn't quite fit, and the distortions could be as fantastic as they were horrifying. It was a very dark place, though, a minefield of shadows with claws even sharper than his, and she really didn't want to have prolonged contact with it. Or any, really, if she could avoid it.

And the only person she had ever contacted telepathically over a distance was the Professor (which didn't exactly count - he was such a powerful telepath that required almost no effort on her part) and Scott. But she'd had a long link with Scott, and that probably didn't count either. His mind was a remarkably trouble free place (well, there were a couple of things, but she found his mind significantly less darker than hers, for the most part), and she had no fear of what lurked in its shadows. Whereas she had no link with Logan, and feared just about everything that lurked in his mind: it was, much like Logan himself, even more deadly than it seemed.

But a part of her was sort of fascinated with it, wasn't she? It was the Doctor in her, she supposed. She wondered how he managed to get through every day life - how he managed to remain sane, in fact - with a mind so devastatingly ravaged. If they found him living as a homeless man on the streets of Calgary, terrified and mistrustful of people and hooked on drugs, she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. Yet somehow he managed to keep relatively functional, and although he seemed to possess an almost pathological avoidance of people, Alex had proved that Rogue was not the first troubled person he had helped.

For her, it posed an interesting question - could his healing abilities extend to the psyche? Was it somehow helping him hold it together? Bridging the gaps in his mind and the psychic wounds, making some latticework approaching normalcy, enough so he could function in spite of having almost no memories beyond nightmarish visions of violation and pain?

She would have loved to have studied that. But Logan had probably been studied enough, and really she didn't want to dig into his mind. A surface glimpse had made her sick; she didn't want to know what would happen to her if she really started going deep.

Still, he was a fascinating paradox, from more than one angle. And she had to stop thinking of him that way, as obviously Scott was starting to pick up on her fascination. But how did one become so brutal and yet noble, sane and yet shattered at the very same time? There was a major paper in there somewhere.

And she was a little disappointed in herself for thinking of him as a research paper. How unfair was that?

The sunlight flashing off the passing  windshields and bodies of cars made her eyes water, and she wished she had remembered to bring some sunglasses. The smell of exhaust and garbage was starting to get to her too, and  she didn't know if it or the recent proximity of Bob was more responsible for her budding headache.

She decided not to hide in the alley anymore - it's not like the girl would know her on sight - and moved out onto the sidewalk, trying hard to look casual, like she was waiting for someone but not urgently so. She didn't want to seem like she was on a stakeout.

She did receive a few glances, and figured it was probably due to the fact that she was the only person wearing a coat on this stiflingly hot day. As she slipped off her windbreaker, a young guy who looked like every other car mechanic she had ever seen stopped, and threw her an oily smile he must have thought as charming. " Hey, what -"

"Move on," she said flatly, staring him straight in his small, pale eyes. She could make it a telepathic command if she had to.

Thankfully, her look and tone of voice seemed to do it. "Moving on," he agreed, and did just that. If only all men were so easily discouraged.

She just draped the jacket over her shoulder, holding on to it by her index finger slid through the inside label, when she heard a strange noise behind her, and turned to see Logan in the alley, coming right towards her. "I saw her," he said by way of explanation, as she glanced up at the roof of the used bookstore beside them. The noise she heard must have been him hitting the ground - how high was that building? He jumped from the roof?

Then again, his bones didn't break. It was one of the things his adamantium was good for. But he landed on his feet? He must have the balance of a cat. "She's on the next block over," he continued, not even acknowledging her surprise over his agility.

"Good eye," Bob said, suddenly appearing at her right.

Even though she sensed the psychic pressure of him, she still jumped. "Don't do that," she snapped.

Bob gave her a sympathetic grimace that she couldn't help but doubt the sincerity of. "Sorry darlin'. Where is she, Logan?"
"She just came out of a Baskin Robbins , but not alone."

"Demon?" Bob asked.

Logan shrugged, wiping sweat off his forehead with arm. Well, he was wearing a leather jacket. "She looked Human, but I smelled somethin' funny, and I bet it was her. She also seemed to shimmer a bit at the edges."

"Shimmer?" Jean repeated. She wasn't even going to ask how Logan could have smelled something funny in the crazy quilt of weird scents that made up what passed for Los Angeles air. It was so laden with effluvia she was pretty sure she could scoop a sample of into a cup and take it back to Westchester with her.

Logan shrugged again, but this time it was a 'damned if I know' sort of gesture. "Like she wasn't completely there. Like a bad hologram."

"Hmm." Bob made that sound thoughtful. "Like a projection - "

It was then that the most curious feeling passed over her like a wave of psychic force, strong enough to make her stagger.

Logan grabbed her arm and steadied her, as a wide eyed Bob asked, "You felt that?" Actually it wasn't a question at all.

She nodded, resting against Logan's solid chest for a moment, enjoying his strength more than she knew she should have. But he didn't seem to mind. "What the hell was that?" She wondered, hoping Bob would know.

"What just happened?" Logan asked. She didn't know if he'd felt it, or was simply reacting to their reactions.

"Fuck if I know," Bob admitted. "It felt like a massive psychic shift."

"What the hell is that?" Logan asked, before she could. She stopped leaning against him, and he gently released her arm. It was funny how you could almost feel the adamantium beneath his flesh; he seemed more solid than he had a right to be. More like a wall than a human, unyielding where he should have been soft. It was both sad and strangely alluring at the very same time. Like him, more or less.

"A sudden and obviously supernatural shift in the basic psychic mood of a group."

"I didn't know groups had psychic moods," Jean admitted, although she had some idea of what he was getting at.

"It's like..." Logan began hesitantly. "Like when a crowd starts turnin' ugly?"

Bob nodded, and gave him a proud smile, like he had passed a test. "Yeah. And who knew you were sensitive to such a thing? But maybe you learned from experience."

That made Logan grimace in distaste, and she felt rather bad for him (what exactly was Bob getting at?), when they all heard the noise of glass breaking, horns blaring, and voices raised to angry shouts on the next block.

They all exchanged knowing, startled looks, and they darted as a group to the head of the street.

As they looked around the corner, she unconsciously reached out and grabbed Logan's upper arm, like she would Scott's if he was here. Not so much for support or courage, just for the knowledge that he was there, no matter what.

It was a street not unlike the one behind them, a dull ribbon of grey bracketed by cracked sidewalks and tiny shops standing hip to hip, like commuters crammed onto rush hour subway cars, but the traffic had stopped flowing through due to a two car collision only a few meters away from them. Someone's sporty red Corvette had met violently with someone's imposing black Mercedes, and the two were now crunched together at the front fenders, creating a v shape that clogged the street as effectively as a barricade.

The two male drivers were arguing with each other in the middle of the street, and now other drivers who were being delayed because of them were getting out of their cars to argue with them. It looked like several arguments were breaking out independently on the sidewalks as well.

(And no matter how much Jean looked, she couldn't see Miranda. Maybe she and her friend had ducked back inside the ice cream parlor.)

"Cute. I bet this is a distraction." Bob said.

Logan nodded in agreement. "The girls are gone. Think they knew they got pegged?"

Bob shrugged this time. "Maybe. If the demon was psychic sensitive, she may have sensed my proximity, and decided that discretion was the better part of valor and beat cheeks. Or got Miranda to wish them elsewhere. Whichever; same difference."

Bob walked out towards the men arguing in the street, pulling off his sunglasses, and snapped, "Hey!"

When they looked at him sharply, clearly annoyed, he said, "Back to normal."

The two men blinked rapidly, and then went right back to arguing, as if there had been no interruption at all. "I guess she didn't get them," Bob admitted sheepishly. He then looked directly at her, his eyes as strangely hypnotic as a cobra, and asked, "Jean, you think you can help me get this crowd under control before they start rioting? Maybe a telepathic suggestion of calm?"

She wasn't sure she could, but she nodded, consenting to give it a try.

As Bob caught as many people as he could and put them to right, she tried hard to project peaceful and sedating thoughts, so hopefully fist fights wouldn't erupt before Bob could correct both sides of the street. Logan, meanwhile, had checked in the ice cream shop, coming out with a rather troubled look on his face (did she want to know what was in there?), and then stood near it, seemingly sniffing the air and looking around, as if trying to determine their direction.

One man unwisely smashed into Logan's shoulder, and she was afraid their might be a fight that that poor man had no hope of winning. But while Logan was clearly annoyed, he ignored him, aware that the guy wasn't in his right mind, and Jean gave him a telekinetic shove down the pavement, just to save his life in case Logan's patience wore thin.

Finally Bob seemed to fix it all, calming everyone down, and just in time too. There was a spark of a headache starting to glow behind her eyes, and she was sweaty and exhausted, as if she had been engaging in physical labor and not psychic work.

Perhaps because of a Bob suggestion, or just because they were back to normal, no one seemed to give them a second look as they walked on passed, like they were nothing more than large stones in the river of pedestrians. They gathered around Logan near the ice cream shop, and she couldn't help but glance in the shop windows as Bob asked, "Can you trace them?"

"If I can find 'em again, yeah, but they must have zapped out, 'cause their trail stops dead here."

The shop was empty. A hot L.A. day, and no one was in there, not even an employee behind the glass topped freezers, although some of the chairs around the circular tables were pushed out, as if people had been there. Once. It was almost more chilling to see the nothingness than it would have been to see bodies. What had happened to all the people?

"What is it?" Bob asked, and she turned to see he was addressing Logan.

Logan was still frowning, a crease appearing between his brows, and he was still clearly troubled by something. "Unless it's the demon, there's somethin' wrong with the girl."

"In what way?" Bob slipped his sunglasses back on, and she wished he had a pair for her.

"She's ill. I smelled dying cells in there. It was too current to be anyone else."

"Dying cells?" Jean repeated. "You can smell that?"

He shrugged, embarrassed. "Illness has a smell."

Actually, several did. She knew from medical school that sometimes certain smells could be associated with specific illnesses - sweetness with diabetes, for example. But by the time you could detect a scent in a person's breath or sweat or even urine, the illness was usually progressed. Still, Logan had a sense of smell more acute than a bloodhound's, and there was no telling what he could smell, and at what stage.

"What did the demon smell like?" Bob asked, and suddenly held something out towards her. They were, she saw, mirrored sunglasses. Oh, cute.

"Ammonia. Somethin' sour, like curled milk or spoiled beer."

Jean was careful only to touch the sunglasses and not Bob, and gave him a nod of thanks as she slipped them on and considered the vague diagnosis of dying cells. "Do you mean damaged tissue, Logan, or cancer? Can you tell?"

He considered that a moment, as Bob held out a pair of sunglasses for him. Logan waved them away. "Cancer usually has a more corrosive smell," he said, and she wished she knew what the hell that meant. But Logan had a vocabulary all his own, one of tastes and smells that no other (or at least few other) could identify with or interpret. It was, in a way, its own form of synesthesia "I don't think so. But I can't rule it out 'til I meet her. She's not in top shape, though."

Bob nodded thoughtfully (where did those sunglasses go?), and said, "I think Miranda has even more problems than we thought. I'll take us back to the mansion and we can talk about it."

"We need to find her," Logan pointed out.

"I know. Before it's too late."

And Bob zapped them back to the mansion before she could ask what that meant, but that might have been for the best.

"I think we're dealing with a Zayrith demon, which knocks Rogue out of her ace in the hole position," Bob announced, as soon as Jean had caught up the others on what had happened.

"A psychic demon?" Xavier asked. The light spilling through the window behind him was much softer than it had been in Los Angeles, muted as if through a filter of near translucent clouds. It was simply kinder here, as if the sun simply glanced, while in L. A. it glared.

Bob nodded, the look on his face deeply regretful. "Zayriths are nasty and opportunistic; they have some psychic powers, but mostly they find other psychic beings to enhance and exploit."

"So this Zayrith is responsible for Miranda's powers?" Scott asked, somewhat dubiously.

"Not completely. I'm sure Miranda is a psychic mutant of some sort, maybe even a telekinetic of some power, but certainly the nesting Zayrith has probably channeled it through itself and made her powers almost unfathomable potent."

"Nesting?" Logan wondered, frowning at his choice of words. That sounded really, really bad.

"Yeah. In this dimensions, Zayriths have some impressive mental powers but are physically...well, let's just say pathetic."

"What do they look like?" Even as he asked it, Logan felt he'd regret it.

"Kinda like snails without shells. Thin, long, grey snails, with little ant legs."

Storm made a noise of disgust, and both Scott and Jean grimaced. Although Bob looked sympathetic, neither he nor Xavier or Logan flinched, and Logan thought darkly, 'Takes more than that to gross us old guys out'.

Not for the first time, he wondered how old he was. Some days he felt exactly a thousand years old, like some sort of living fossil whose stubborn body refused to quit. Or, turning to a more poetic turn of phrase, maybe death itself had simply forsaken him for greener (deader) pastures.

"So, anyways," Bob went on, after expressions of disgust were out of the way. "If they want to stay alive in this dimension and have some level of functioning, they need to find a psychic person to act as host and help them metamorphose into a more functional body."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Scott said, shaking his head as if he didn't understand, or didn't want to understand. "You're going to have to explain it in simpler terms for those of us not versed on demon habits."

"Okay. They need to find a person with psychic energy, although they don't like telepaths so much, maybe because they don't like the chatter. Anyways, once they find a suitable host, they slip in, usually through the ear canal - "

"They infest the body?" Jean exclaimed, sounding and looking appalled. She seemed to have captured the general mood of the room quite well. "Like a parasite?"

"Most psychic demons are parasites," Bob told her, as if that was common knowledge. "They're basically all brain and almost no body. There are exceptions, of course, but for the most part, demons can be broken down into two groups: massive body and/or physical power, equals no or negligible psychic powers. Slight body, physical powers, and/or lack of completely corporeal form, equals powerful or overwhelming psychic powers."

"So why do you have a body?" Scott asked.

Logan scowled, trying to cover the fact that he was thinking exactly that.

Bob grinned, and then said, "Go on, Logan, say it. I know you're dying to."

Suddenly everyone in the room was looking at him, and he knew exactly what smart ass Bob was referring to - the second thought that had crossed his mind, answering his own (and Scott's) question. Bastard. "Gods don't count," Logan snapped, calling his bluff.

"Gods?" Storm repeated, staring at Bob like he had suddenly grown an extra head. (Always a possibility with him.)

"You have to be joking," Scott said, frowning at the both of them.

But Bob, still grinning, went right on with his story, as usual completely glossing over the god concept like it was too absurd to even respond to. But by now they both knew there was no other explanation for him, not to mention his supposed friendship with Ganesha. "Okay, so the Zayrith infests a likely host, usually without their knowledge - "

"You're a god?" Scott interrupted, disbelief evident on his Ken doll placid face.

Bob's grin took on a hard edge, like his humor about it all was wearing thin. "One person's god is another person's demon," he replied cryptically, and then went back to his point. "And then the Zayrith twists the psychic power of the host. Not only to keep it from realizing it's there, but to help it come to fruition."

"We're supposed to believe you're a god?" Scott said, absolutely unwilling to let this go.

"And fruition is..?" Logan asked, ignoring him.

"Well, basically, it's a psychic induced tran-substantiation."

"What?" Jean asked, staring hard at Bob like he was doing that on purpose. He probably was.

"It reconfigures the host psychic energies enough to literally make itself real - a real body - using the energy and some of the cells of the host. The problem is, it kills the hosts while doing it. In fact, part of its reconstruction of neural passageways in the host can act not unlike a brain tumor, which is why what Logan said troubles me. The Zayrith is at least advanced enough to be causing some brain damage, no matter how minor, to Miranda, and now that's it using her abilities to project itself - and I assume the girl Logan saw with her was just a psychic projection of the form the demon intends to physically create eventually - it means we're down to time here. Maybe because she's a mutant, she's burning through her powers fast."

"So it's the demon doing these things, not the girl?" Storm asked.

"It's facilitating the girl, and maybe influencing her, but it can't completely override her will. At least, not yet."

"Can we get this thing out of her and save her?" Jean wondered.

"It's going to be progressively harder the stronger it gets. I can't really get it - as you know, I'd hurt Miranda as much as the demon - but once it manifests in an outward physical form I could take it down no problem."

"But by that time, the girl would be dead," Logan pointed out.

Bob nodded. "The drawback in the plan."

"Are you saying we actually need an exorcist?" Scott asked, shocked that his sarcastic suggestion might actually prove to be the answer.

"No. They're just scam artists. Seriously, like any of that "oh, holy salt shaker" stuff would work on any but the lamest  demon. What I need to do is figure out a way to draw the Zayrith out of Miranda before the metamorphosis is complete."

"I still don't get how anything could use another to transform itself," Storm admitted, still trying to puzzle it out.

"Look at it this way. It's a fundamental principal of physics that energy can't be created or destroyed, just transformed., channeled, or, to some degree, changed. The basis for the belief in reincarnation, I believe. So what the Zayrith does is take some energy - Miranda  - and changes it to a more amenable form  - something for itself."

"Can we lure it out somehow?" Scott asked.

"Can we make Miranda an unsuitable host?" Logan asked.

Bob thought about it, making appropriate faces of doubt."I'll call Ammy, see if she knows of any spells I can throw at a Zayrith."

"Spells now?" Scott repeated, exasperated.

Everyone ignored him. "I thought she was on vacation and threatened you with frogifying if you bugged her," Logan said, remembering Amaranth's threats before Bob teleported him out of his house and zapped him straight to Tokyo.

"Frogify?"Jean asked.

"Aww, she was just tetchy," he claimed, and then, grinning slyly, told Jean, "Frogify is to turn into a frog. It's not fun."

"You're claiming she can turn people into frogs?" Scott said, moving into a sort of steady state dubiousness where he didn't quite believe anything anyone said, but was too tired to offer up anything else.

"She turned me into a newt once. I got better."

Logan recognized that as a line from "Monty Python and The Holy Grail", but judging from the looks everyone was giving him, no one else did.

That seemed to amuse Bob, who gave him a knowing wink as he pulled out his cellphone. "I'll go give her a jingle. You got any reality alterers enrolled, Chuck? Shapeshifters? Anyone with the ability to manipulate time?"

"We're not bringing students into this," Scott insisted vehemently.

Logan exchanged a glance with Xavier, his ice blue eyes both resolute and emotionless at the same time, and Xavier said, "Tanith," just as Logan said, "Zero."

Bob looked between them curiously. "Tanith Zero?"

"Tanith McEwan, actually," Xavier explained. "She likes to refer to herself as Zero, a shortened form of Absolute Zero. Her powers allows her to suspend molecular motion in a limited area, nearly stopping it completely."

"Like absolute zero,"Bob said, nodding as he got it. "How limited an area?"

"We've tested it out to about ten feet around her. She can only hold it for a limited amount of time, because it's physically draining for her."

"How precise is it? Can she use it surgically?"

"I've worked with her a bit about usin' it as a weapon," Logan told him, shifting his weight against the wall to his other shoulder. Weariness was settling on him like a lead shroud, and he had no idea why, unless it was some kind of teleportation lag. Or just being around Scott. "How surgical are we talkin' about?"

"It can be lethal when used on a person," Jean hastily pointed out. "I've worked with her too, and suspending molecular motion means suspending many basic bodily functions, including circulation and respiration."

"As well as the oxygen molecules in the air," Bob said, but in a way that suggested he found that fascinating.

"No kids in this," Scott insisted, looking dour and ticked off. "Getting Rogue into this was bad enough."

"Tanith's seventeen," Logan countered. "I think she's old enough to decide for herself."

"Wow, I barely remember being seventeen,"Bob admitted, sounding bemused. "I think I got thrown in the dock back in England for stealing a bottle of whiskey then."

Logan didn't know which was worse: Bob lying about that, or Bob telling the truth.

Before Scott could make some smart ass comment, Bob said, "It'll probably take us an hour to get our shit together, so why don't you catch some zees, Logan? Don't worry, we won't leave without you: your muscles and your fantabulous nose are always needed."

He sighed through his nose, glaring at Bob. Just announce his weariness to the room; terrific. Bob was certainly a thoughtful demi - god."I don't need any sleep. I'm good."

"When was the last time you slept?" Bob asked, looking at him curiously. But the bastard was struggling to hide a smirk as Logan tried and failed to come up with a time. "See? When you don't know, it's been too long. Now go, shoo, you're making me tired just hanging around."

"I don't need sleep."

"And I'm a cheese doodle. Would you just piss off already?"

Logan glared at Bob, aware it did absolutely fuck all, but he couldn't stop himself either. "You should really keep other people's thoughts to yourself," he groused, turning and leaving the study.

"Now where's the fun in that?" Bob replied as he left.

He just knew he was going to say that.

**

Her hair; her scent. Mariko.

Even as he felt a sickening twinge in his gut - he would swear his heart - realizing he was dreaming about her (and he knew he was dreaming: Mariko appeared nowhere else), it didn't stop him from moving through the motions of the dream, brushing his lips across her cheek, down to her slender neck.

Logan could feel her arms wrapped around him, one across his waist, another reaching up and holding  on to his shoulder. He felt one of her legs wrap around his, pulling him down onto her, and he remembered how she liked to cling to him tightly, like she was afraid he might suddenly leave. Knowing him, maybe she was.

He could taste her skin, the saline of her sweat, and he closed his eyes, feeling her arch against him, her warm hand moving from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. This was too much. It was bad enough that he didn't quite remember her, and that when he did he felt a deep shock of guilt and sorrow, so brutal he wanted to instantly forget again; but to have a memory like this (if it was), making love to her, it was just too much. It exacerbated his usual duality to the nth degree: he wanted to wake up now; he never wanted to wake up.

She tangled her hand in his hair, as familiar a sensation as their bodies meeting belly to belly, and he sighed her name, kissing her throat, feeling her frenetic pulse beneath his lips. The scent of her skin was warm and clean, almost like rain and sand, and he knew it; it was familiar, even though he would swear he had never smelled it before. He felt this great swell of lust and love for her, so overwhelming it seemed foreign - he couldn't believe he'd ever felt that way about anyone. How stupid was he to ever leave himself so open, so vulnerable to attack and loss?

(Wasn't the first time - certainly wasn't the last.)

He felt her kiss his ear, her teeth gently nip the lobe, and then she whispered, her breath a hot caress against his skin, "You killed me."

Logan jolted awake, desire and terror mixing uneasily in his stomach, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He sat up, dry washing his face, finding sweat on his brow and his hands shaking. Guilt and slow horror washed away all the lingering lust. God, he couldn't even have a normal erotic dream; they all had to turn into nightmares.

He got up and walked to the bathroom, glancing at the clock on his dresser as he passed it - he'd been asleep for forty five minutes. Shit, he must have been tired to sleep that hard.

Even as he splashed water on his face, rubbing it into his face and hair, he thought he could still taste her, and his hands were still shaking. Yes, he failed her, and her death was his fault, but he felt something like ice in the pit of his stomach, like it was even worse than his mind would allow him to remember. That he may as well have injected the poison in her himself. Of course he didn't, he couldn't...but would he ever really know for sure?

All he knew was Mariko's blood was on his hands. He just wasn't sure to what extent.

He had rubbed warm water onto the back of his neck, watched the water drip down from his face and make ripples on the surface of the water in the sink, and he realized something was very wrong here.

Everything seemed, on the surface, fine: the bathroom looked the same as always,  it smelled the same, he was still wearing the same t - shirt, jeans, and socks he had (barely) stripped down to to sleep, and when he looked into the mirror the same strange man looked back at him, red capillaries branching off from green irises healing and disappearing as he watched, fading back to perfect white, beads of water suspended in his facial hair like tiny diamonds. Sometimes, if he stared at himself long enough, he almost looked familiar to himself; and sometimes he could see the skin thinned around his eyes, allowing him to imagine the leering metal skull and its blank sockets beneath the flesh.