“Scott, you’re jumping to conclusions,” Xavier said calmly. “Just because it’s a package for Logan doesn’t automatically make it suspect.”

“Yes it does. No one knows he stays here from time to time except the terminally suspect.”

Xavier raised an eyebrow at him, remaining strangely calm. “Except for his ex-girlfriend in England, and Bob, and Helga. And Angel, and Scorpion, and that policewoman he knows in Alaska … was her name,  Alex?”

“But they would know better than to send a package anonymously, don’t you think?” Scott briefly wondered about the ex-girlfriend in England - since when had Logan mentioned that?  Did Logan know the Professor knew that?

“Maybe they thought he could smell them,” Ororo offered, instantly grimacing at how lame and weird that sounded. “You know how good he is at that.”

“We don’t have an x-ray machine or something?” Piotr asked, still eyeing the box like it might jump up and attack them. “A student who can see in x-rays?”

Xavier shook his head. “Not at the moment, no.”

“Then why don’t I take it out back and open it?” Piotr suggested.  As they all stared at him, he said, “I’ll armor up.  If there’s something explosive in there, it won’t hurt me.”

“It might not be explosive,” Scott pointed out. “It could be toxic.”

Ororo scoffed. “Not if they wanted to hurt Logan.  He’s immune to most of those sort of things. The tear gas didn’t even effect him yesterday.”

“May I point out once again this could be much ado over nothing,” Xavier said, but now he was frowning at the box, as if trying to telepathically scan it.

“But what if it’s not?” Scott argued. “We can’t just assume this is benign.”

“But what if it is?” Storm asked, coming down on the Professor’s side. “We’d be invading his privacy.”

“I won’t look through it,” Piotr offered. “I’ll just open it to make sure it doesn’t detonate.” He seemed strangely resigned to it now, as if it was a dirty job someone had to do.

Scott knew the Professor was wavering, so he gave one last ditch effort to convince him. “Even the papers can’t identify Logan, and you know why?  Because officially he doesn’t exist, and has never existed. With a few exceptions, the people who know who he is are not people looking out for his best interests.”

Xavier scowled at him and the package alike, as if trying to decide which one was worse.  Storm’s expression was inscrutable, and Piotr was just waiting for the verdict. “Take it to the auxiliary hangar downstairs,” Xavier finally said. “No area is more secure than that.”

Scott let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Piotr?” Xavier asked him.

Piotr nodded, his eyes remarkably guileless. “Logan would do the same thing for me.”

That made Scott look at him curiously. Had they met? “He would?”

Piotr must have heard the doubt in his voice, because he raised an eyebrow at him, his look verging on skeptical. “Of course he would.  He’s fearless.”

Piotr must never have heard his screaming nightmares. But still, he supposed that otherwise, Piotr had a point - Logan was suicidal self-destructive.  If he had any regard for his own physical well being, he generally left it at home - wherever the hell home was. As a team member it made him equally invaluable and completely irresponsible; as good as he was bad.  He seriously hoped Piotr wasn’t one of those who looked up to Logan while completely missing what exactly it was they were looking up to. Although it was a fine line, there was a difference between bravery and recklessness.

The Professor maneuvered his wheelchair out of the kitchen, and Storm followed him, giving the package an odd backward glance.  Scott stood aside as Piotr “armored up” and yet very gingerly picked up the package. It was always an odd thing to see the metal just appear on his skin, flowing upwards like a reverse image of quicksilver being poured on him, but Piotr himself seemed barely conscious of it.  As he said, when he “went steel” the only change was he no longer felt anything - heat, cold, any tactile sensations at all. They were all buried under the metal. Sometimes thought Scott that was a pretty good idea, and something he could use.

He followed behind Piotr, taking up the end of their little doom parade, playing rear guard to an unknown threat.  It was possible that he was overreacting, and this was some kind of care package from someone … but he still didn’t know who would do such a thing. Bob wouldn’t bother with something as pedestrian as a package; Scorpion was unlikely to have baked him a bunch of cookies. And frankly, an ex-girlfriend was a likely candidate to send him a bomb, wasn’t she?

The auxiliary hangar was just like the main one, layered in thick titanium alloy steel, capable of sealing up tight to contain a fire or an explosion, on the off-chance something catastrophic occurred.  It hadn’t yet, and hopefully never would, but it was good to be prepared. Currently it was empty, save for a tool chest in the far corner, the same silver as the walls so it blended in like an optical illusion. Piotr went inside on his own, while they retreated to a “control room”, whose impact proof glass was usually shielded with titanium shutters. But as soon as they entered, Xavier moved to the control panel and they rose up, revealing the stark, brightly lit hangar. Inside of it, the large Piotr looked strangely small and vulnerable, even swathed in steel. Scott wished he was in there with him.

He placed the box down in the center of the hangar, as carefully as if it was made of spun glass, and crouched down beside it, looking towards them. “Are you ready?” He asked.

“Whenever you are,” Xavier said aloud, but Scott knew that it had been telepathic as well, otherwise how could Piotr have heard it?

Piotr nodded and very carefully started to peel the tape from the package.  Scott felt himself tensing, but he managed not to hold his breath this time.

At least Pete seemed to flinch away slightly as he tore open the flaps of the box, but it was an anti-climax, as absolutely nothing happened.

He scowled as if disappointed, and glanced inside the box. “It’s … “ he then peered in curiously, as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. “Is this a joke?”

Scott’s bad feeling came back hard.  He leaned past Ororo and stabbed the intercom. “What is it?”

She leaned past him and said, “Leave it, Piotr.”

But Piotr had already lifted something up, for a better look, and suddenly Xavier gasped. “Oh my god.”

He must have seen through Piotr’s eyes, because Piotr suddenly dropped the box and lurched backwards, almost tripping himself up in his haste to get away. “What is it?” Storm asked, but as soon as Scott saw Piotr trying to suppress a gag, he raced out of the control room and headed for the hangar door. Perversely, if it was a virus or a toxin, he felt it was only right he be exposed to it, since he put Piotr up
to this.

But as he entered the hangar, he heard Xavier say in his head :*It’s not what you think.*

He’d entered through the south door of the hangar, so he was closer to the box than Piotr, who was currently leaning against a wall just left of the control room window, head hanging down as if he thought he might barf, or was trying very hard not to.  In his haste to get away, Piotr had knocked over the box, and its contents had partially spilled out.  Scott approached it cautiously, not sure what he was looking at at first. He thought “something furry”, but that made no sense.

He had to stare at a moment to realize what he was seeing, and the sudden, heavy smell of rotting celery - where the hell had that come from? - nearly knocked him flat.  But soon he realized he was staring at a head.

He thought Piotr was right, and it was a sick joke.  It looked like a mannequin head, and the eyes … the eyes had been replaced by something like yellow glass. Almost the same mustardy color that coated the inside of the box. But there was something in the slackness of the mouth, the discoloration of the skin …
it was a real head, wasn’t it?

And just beside its ear was a single slip of paper. ‘You’re next’ was written on it in the slowly darkening yellow blood of the demonic victim.

6

Logan didn’t even know Yasha had a phone installed until its piercing ring shattered his sleep.

He woke up, only to find Yasha stirring, groaning in complaint. “Fuck,” she muttered. “Is it night yet?”

He glanced up at the ceiling, saw that the finger of light on the ceiling hadn’t changed much. “Nope.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s your phone.” He then paused. “Why do you have a phone?”

“People need to get in touch with me, don’t they?  Being a vampire doesn’t make you a crazed loner. Necessarily.  Besides, how else would I get on the internet?”

He rolled his eyes, hoping she was joking, but pretty sure she wasn’t. “Everybody is high-tech but me, is that it?”

She turned over to face him, and gave him a nudge in the ribs. “It’s hardly high-tech nowadays, old man - get with the times.  And besides, it’s a great place to find victims.”

He glared up at her, and she gave him a sharp, sarcastic little grin. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were tired, but damn if she wasn’t still gorgeous. “You through being funny?”

She pretended to think about it. “Perhaps.”

The phone was closing in on its twentieth ring. “Are you gonna get it?”  He wondered.

She sighed - amazing since she didn’t need to breathe - and flopped back down on her pillow. “Why should I?  Unless it’s a wrong number or a telemarketer, it’s not for me.  No one has my number yet. It’s probably for you - you get it.”

He scoffed. “For me?  Even I didn’t know I was comin’ here.  How could … ” But he trailed off as he realized, holy shit, he did know someone with a knack for finding him.  Bob and Xavier alike - but would Bob phone?  Well, he could - you couldn’t put much past Bob. “Shit,” he grumbled, dry washing his face.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Wow. Does being an avatar mean you’re on a short leash?”

“Hah.” He slipped out of bed, more tired than he would have thought, and stalked naked to the phone, his indignant rage growing with ever step. Could he not get a moment’s peace?  Was a day in bed with his vampire girlfriend too much to ask?

Okay - there was so much about that statement that sounded wrong it almost tripped him up.

The apartment really wasn’t that big; he had to walk to the opposite end of it, which ended in a small kitchenette, where old fashioned white paper blinds were pulled down against the slivers of light that could theoretically bleed in through a small side window.  The telephone sitting on the counter was the only sign of habitation in the room.

After considering not answering - and then remembering it was well into its thirtieth ring - he snatched the receiver up violently, and snapped, “This better be good.”

“I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t think it was important,” Xavier’s smooth, clipped voice replied.

Oh shit. He’d have preferred Bob somehow.  If Xavier found him using his Cerebro doohickey, did he know what he was doing?  Oh Christ, he hoped not. “What is it?” He said through gritted teeth, not sure
if he should be angry, embarrassed, or both.

“I believe you may be in immediate danger.”

“I’m always in danger.”

“But I believe this threat might be … unusual.  We just received a package for you here at the mansion. Scott was concerned it was a bomb.”

He just grunted an acknowledgement, not sure what Xavier wanted him to say. “Probably was. No one’d send me somethin’.”

“Well … it wasn’t a bomb. Piotr opened it, just to make sure it wasn’t, and …” Xavier paused, and then asked, “Do you know any demons with yellow blood, and yellow glass in place of eyes?”

The yellow blood momentarily threw him, but the eyes brought him back. “Yellow glass?  Do ya mean like yellow crystal?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, kinda, a Persaid demon. Why?”  Had Rags paid a return visit to the mansion?

Xavier’s pause was so lengthy Logan could feel the discomfort coming down the line. “His head was inside the box.”

Until this point, he had been leaning against the butcher block counter. Now he straightened up. “What?”

He heard Yasha padding in behind him, the sheet wrapped around her like a dark purple sari. “What about a Persaid demon?” She asked quietly.

“It occurred to me calling the police and reporting a demon murder was probably out of their jurisdiction,” Xavier added wryly.  But that was his only attempt to lighten the news. “There was a note in the box as well.”

“What did it say?”

“You’re next.”

He waited, but obviously Xavier was done. “That’s it?  No name or anything?”

“No.”

Yasha planted herself firmly in his peripheral vision, and asked, “What about a Persaid demon?”

He stared at her impatiently, and was about to ask why she cared - did she know Rags? - but then he suddenly remembered:  Cujo. Holy shit. “What color was the guy’s hair?” Logan asked.

“Pardon?”

“The guy in the box. Was he blond?”

“No, he had black hair. You know more than one?”

Logan covered the receiver with his hand and held it aside. “Shit, Yasha, I’m sorry.  Someone just mailed Cujo’s head to me back at the mansion in New York.”

Her expression remained as cool as always. “Who would do that?”

He shrugged, not sure what to tell her, but then something seemed to enter her eyes, a sort of startled awareness. “The Vantha,” she said.

It took him a moment to remember what she was talking about. “The demon mob Fujimori worked for?” He was about to ask her why they’d bother to do that, but then he realized he still had Xavier on the line. He brought the receiver back up, and asked, “Did the package have any Japanese postmarks?”

“No. There were virtually no markings on it at all.”

“You’re assuming it really came via the post office,” Yasha told him.

Aw crap. “Got the place locked down?” He asked Xavier, never taking his eyes from her intense gaze.

“Yes, but I doubt we’re in danger. The head gives every sign of being … recent.  They must have known you were here before. They probably will know soon - if not immediately - that you are no longer here. Which is why I thought I’d best warn you.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“If you’d like to come back - ”

“No, no, I’ll be good. Worry about the others; I’ll be fine.  Thanks.”  He hung up before Xavier could contradict him in any way.  He then looked at Yasha, and asked, “Demons have their own post office?”

“Not that I know of, but it’s a good idea, isn’t it?” She grimaced, and said, more seriously, “Anything’s possible when dealing with the mystic.”

“Yeah, I know,” he agreed bitterly, rubbing the remaining sleep out of his eyes.

“You’re rather sanguine for someone who just got mailed a severed head.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “And you’re rather sanguine considerin’ it was your ex-boyfriend’s head.”

That made her frown. “Cujo?  Oh please, he was a Persaid demon!  Okay, he was sweet on me, and maybe I took advantage of that, but believe me, I never did anything but use him for his underworld contacts.”

He wondered if that was really supposed to make it better. At his skeptical look, she added, “I am sorry the bonehead got killed.  I thought he was smarter than that.”

“We have no idea what he was up against.  But why would these Vantha think I’d give a shit about what happened to Cujo?” But it was barely out of his mouth before he realized, “Fuck - they know about us.”

She considered that a moment before shaking her head. “Not necessarily. They could have found out you paid him a visit … and knowing Cujo, he didn’t sell me out.  So he put it all on you.”

Logan nodded, honestly relieved. “Good.  But I’m sorry he got caught in the crossfire. Who are the Vantha anyways? You never really told me.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I just assumed they were another demon mob - these suckers pop up like weeds, but die off like hothouse roses. Maybe if I was interested in joining I’d have learned more, but I had no interest; Fujimori was a prick, and I knew if he was associated with it, it sucked.  No pun intended.”

Fair enough. He was tired enough that he slid down the counter and sat on the cool linoleum tiled floor, and she joined him, sharing the sheet with him so they were sitting with their shoulders touching. It struck him as so perfectly bizarre - they were both almost indestructible (well, her less so - he didn’t have the sunlight and pointy pieces of wood problem), both too fucking old (although he had no idea how old he actually was - it was possible he was wrong), and both considered little better than animals, with a gift for killing.  They were perfect for each other, and yet so very wrong.  He hardly knew her at all - she played things close to the vest, just like he did - and he knew vampires as a species couldn’t usually be trusted. But oddly, he trusted her; maybe because she could have killed him, but she didn’t.  The ultimate in trust exercises.

“I got some people I can call for info,” he finally said, leaning his head against a cupboard. “I’ll find these bastards.”

“Don’t you mean find out about them?”

“No. They wanna come after me? Great - why don’t I meet ‘em in the middle?”

She gave him a sideways glance, and smiled slyly, putting a cool hand on his thigh. “You really are a samurai.  The best defense is a surprise offense.”

He decided to ignore that. “You don’t have to come along.”

“Yes I do.”

He was torn about this. People around him got hurt, they died - but she was already dead, technically. And if a vampire could survive for a hundred and fifty years, would she really be in that much danger now? “Need to get some revenge for Cujo?”

“That, and I ain’t letting you go in alone.  If there’s some ass kicking to be had, you ain’t cheating me out of my slice.”

That was another reason why he could love her. “So reminding you it might be dangerous and pointless is just catnip to you, is that it?”

“Meow.” She grinned at him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

He kissed her forehead, and wondered if his life would ever be less fucked up than it was now.

7

Bob knew he was still asleep when he saw his bedroom floor was undulating like the ocean.

The carpet here was the same wine dark color it was in the hall, but now it was a riot of colors: metallic bronzes and greens, ruby red and onyx, with flashes of turquoise and amber, the yellow of spilled lemonade and the white of blind eyes.

They were snakes by the dozens, by the hundreds, all swarming over the surfaces and each other, as a pillar of them began growing in the far corner, taking on the shape of a man.  Cobras and coral snakes coiled and merged together, bleeding into the shapes of legs and trunk, copperheads, sidewinders, and boa constrictors becoming arms and neck, milk and garter snakes piling up into a head.

The moon bright silver eyes emerged last, seemingly floating out from beneath the mass of multicolored scales, and Degei said, “I’m sorry to barge in on the mental plane, Bob, but I thought you might want to hear this right away.”

He propped himself up on one elbow and nodded, still feeling completely shagged out. “I’m all about the bad news.  I’m assuming it’s bad?”

Degei nodded, the snakes settling around his neck, tails and tongues briefly flicking the air before solidifying into the body. “Are you all right? You seem more blue than usual.”

“Saw the folks. You know how it is.”

He made a noise of trepidation that was half groan, half hiss. “I’ve never liked the Powers.  Too secretive and superior.”

“They are not people beings, that’s for sure.  So what’s pissing on our parade now, mate?”

“Followers of Camaxtli. There have been massive sacrifices on several planes.”

Bob groaned and closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall back on his pillow. Massive sacrifices in his name meant they had gotten the signal to spill blood in his name and power him up.  It could be relatively benign - it could be simply to facilitate his transfer onto this plane.  But since nothing about Cammy was benign, that didn’t track.  Besides, he probably already had the power to transposition Jean here - that couldn’t be the point.  He opened his eyes, and stared at the watery light on the ceiling, rippling like a disturbed pond. “Who are the big sacrificers?  Got me a name?”

The snakes rearranged themselves on his shoulders, signally a shrug. “All the usual suspects, although the Shafans have been unusually quiet. Word is you put the fear of Bob into them.”

“Bloody well right I did. They killed someone I knew, and seemed poised to open up a door between their dimension and this one.  Not while I’m around they ain’t.”

“They’re not very bright.”

Bob scoffed. “Punning, are we?  Things must be really bad.”

Degei let out a sibilant sigh, his shoulders rolling like waves. “It is. My babies here, on this plane … ” He paused, and Bob looked up at him sharply.  Since when was Deg afraid to tell him something? “ … they tell me that there are plans to resurrect Itzli on this plane.”

Bob felt like he’d been kicked in the teeth by Eris.  Bloody fucking hell - Itzli.  “That’s not good,” he admitted.

He scoffed. “No fucking kidding.”

Itzli -if he was known to Humans at all - was supposedly an Aztec god (like Cammy), the god of the knife, therefore the god of sacrifice.  What wasn’t known was he was a servant of Cammy, perhaps his best procurer of blood - because Itzli was death. With a simple flick of his hand he could cut the throats of everyone in his line of sight, and the sound of his voice alone was enough to kill.  He wasn’t bad news, he was the most horrible news imaginable - he didn’t need to touch a single person to kill them dozens at a time.  He was probably the closest thing to the Belial biblical “Four Horseman” that had ever existed.

He was banished from the Earth plane by Ometecuhtli, who got fed up with the amount of power Cammy had, and thus began the end of Cammy’s reign on Earth - it just wasn’t as fun without his right hand death machine, although he could serve up steaming slabs of death himself.  If Itzli was allowed to come back, there was no way in hell Jean was coming back at all - Cammy would use the body, but her personality would be completely gone.  It would be like the old days, Cammy and Itchy, slaughtering the sheep and having a grand old pool of blood party.  And Bob knew he couldn’t call on Ometecuhtli for help, as he/she had dispersed itself not long after the fall of the Aztec empire. “Shit. Where?”  To raise Itchy
would mean blood - rivers and rivers of blood.  But not just plain old blood; there’d have to be some special ingredients in the mix, and the ritual itself would probably level a city block.

Degei shook his head helplessly, his eyes shining like moons. “I haven’t found that out yet.  But who is immune to Itzli besides us and the rest of the Aurelia?”

Aww, fuck fuck fuck.  It was great how, even if you were drowning, your hair could still catch on fire,
and your insides could still be liquefied by the ebola virus. “The Silencias. Oh god fucking shit.  At least it narrows it down.  Maybe I can find them first.”  The Silencias was the collective name of semi-gods, demi-demi-gods, and a random assortment of accidental offspring, bastards, and quasi-relatives of the irresponsible and powerful, either deity or demon (or sometimes both). Singly they were generally nothing; together they were a force to be reckoned with.  And they liked to stick together - safety (and power) in numbers. But, as their collective name suggested, they generally stayed quiet, laid low; this plane was not friendly to them, and not of their choosing.  If they bothered to stick their heads out of their hidey holes, there was some bad shit going down. “They are so fucking dead,” Bob grumbled, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “When I find them, I’m stripping them of every power they have. If they’re lucky.”

“Isn’t that stepping over the bounds?” Degei asked nervously.

“So what if it is? They can sic their parents on me - assuming they even take their phone calls, which I doubt. Why would they be stuck on this plane if they were tight with the parental units?”  He sighed heavily. “This is so fucked.”

“I know.” After a portentous pause, Deg added, “I’ll help if I can.”

“I know you will.” But Bob knew he was probably on his own here. And would he have it any other way? After all, spanking naughty gods was his job. Even if they did have daddies and mommies that could swat him down like a bug.

But when you played with the fire of the gods, you had to expect a burn every now and again.