November 11, 1922, Orient Express Sleeping Car 3309, some miles outside Vienna, Austria

The snow-covered trees stared back at her, like so many ghosts, pale and gaunt in the thrall of winter. Mississippi would be warmer than this. Anything would be warmer than this.

Marie Darkholme was tired of staying in her sleeping carriage. She was tired of looking at a blanket of white covering the window. And, more importantly, she was tired of listening to her stepmother drone on and on about what a fabulous time she was having.

The constant click clack and the gentle rocking of the train were making her drowsy. Her lids drooped heavily but through them she still caught Raven shoveling through her trunk like a dog digging up a bone.

"Oh, isn't this just marvelous! I love the service here. Do you know, I asked for my heel to be repaired not two hours ago and here it is? Darling, this is magnificent. What do you think I should wear to dinner tonight?" She held up two nearly identical black evening gowns. Two gowns that were bought in Paris for more money than it cost her father to buy ten suits.

Marie watched in bemusement as her father was cornered into making a decision he'd come to regret. It was always the same. Ever since marrying Raven, her father had lost any semblance of a backbone. Their miserable journey to Europe had been Raven's idea. The ride on the Orient Express had been a must: "Oh, anybody who's anybody rides it, darling!" Marie sighed and tried to ignore the plaintiff whining of her stepmother.

"I, I don't know, sweetheart. I think they'd both look absolutely fabulous," Marie's father stammered.

Marie would've been surprised if Raven's groan hadn't been heard throughout the car. "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother asking you at all, Robert. Honestly!"

Robert Darkholme merely looked on wearily, mustache and shoulders sagging under the weight of his wife's displeasure.

"Wear the black one, Raven," drawled Marie, entertained for the first time in a week.

"Thank you, Marie," Raven ground out, eyes glowing an unearthly green. "You are always such a help."

Marie rolled her eyes, but promptly shut her mouth. Raven had more personalities than she could count, and she didn't want to be on the receiving end of anything one of the less pleasant ones had to dole out. In two days they would reach Constantinople. If she could avoid any confrontation before then, Marie would consider it a small victory.

"How long before we reach Vienna, Father?"

"Twenty minutes, I think. Why?"

"No reason." Her reason, of course, was that the walls of the compartment were starting to close in on her. Maybe in Vienna, she'd be able to get some fresh air. If only it wasn't snowing...

As if reading her mind, her father suddenly said, "Why don't you go out to the smoking car, Marie? Distract yourself some."

"I think I will, Father. Thank you." She rose from her seat, grabbed a book, and exited the compartment, clearly avoiding any contact with her stepmother.

---

"Bon jour, mademoiselle."

The melodious voice startled Marie into looking up from her novel. The young man's attire revealed him to be a Wagons-Lit employee, a condoctuer, although she'd never seen him before. "Bon jour," she replied tentatively.

"Bon romance?" A rakish smile crossed the man's lips and Marie suddenly felt uncomfortable with the situation.

She got up from her seat and tried to move past him. "Excusez-mois."

"Non! Pardon. Je m'appelle Remy. Et vous?"

Well, he certainly was forward, she thought. Still, he didn't seem dangerous. Marie's basic French was enough to recognize his introduction. "Marie."

"Enchantee, Marie."

She didn't offer him her hand, but he took it anyway. When he began raising it to his lips, she pulled back, distressed by how quickly he'd violated her space. "Enough," she said, exasperated. "I don't speak French so you'll just have to leave me alone."

The conductuer stepped back, slightly abashed. "Ah, I apologize. I didn't recognize your accent. You are American?"

"Yes." The man has very little work to do if he's able to stand around all day chatting with passengers, thought Marie. He seemed friendly enough, but there remained an air of superiority about him that didn't sit well with her. He didn't seem like the type to take orders from anyone.

"I am sorry if I disturbed you, miss. I thought you looked a bit lonesome sitting here and -"

"I wasn't," she interrupted. "And I hope you don't think me rude if I ask you to leave."

"Of course not miss," he responded easily. "Please, enjoy the rest of your trip." He bowed slightly and turned toward the other end of the car.

---

"You were right, monsieur. She is quite cool. Frigid, non? It is not a wonder they call her 'untouchable'. Were did you learn of this?"

"Her stepmother talks to anything that moves. She's quite loose with her information. Comes in handy."

The younger man nodded. "I should say so." Then in a conspiratorial hush, "When do you plan to make your move?"

"Soon. After Vienna perhaps, or I may wait until Bucharest. Certainly before reaching the Turkish border. This train will not reach Constantinople, my friend. Not with that girl still on it."

"The father will not be a problem?"

The tall, lean man gazed at his younger companion and smiled. "His idiocy is my biggest asset. I foresee no difficulties." He chuckled slightly. "And, as you well know, the chef du train is even more incompetent. Who is there to stop us?"

"No one, I assure you." The conducteur reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a key. "This will serve us well, n'est-ce pas?"

Taking the object, the man responded, "Yes, it certainly will." He placed an amiable hand on the French man's shoulder. "You're even more useful than I anticipated Monsieur LeBeau."

LeBeau smirked as he began rolling a cigarette. "I expect to be rewarded handsomely."

"Of course you do."

---

The train began to slow and Marie saw the Vienna station coming into view. It was still snowing, but not as heavily as before. This gave her the opportunity to go out onto the platform, a welcome relief from the stuffiness of the train.

She walked to her compartment and grabbed an overcoat, preparing herself for the chill outdoors. As soon as the train made a complete stop and she heard a conducteur give the call, she stepped into the Austrian night.

The platform was covered, protected from the snow, but the harsh wind hit her hard. Her exposed face became stiff from the cold. She watched as several other passengers made their way out, joining her on the platform even as others made their way onto the train for the first time. A couple huddled together, speaking rapidly in German and rubbing their hands together vigorously. It made her glad she'd remembered to wear her gloves.

Marie continued staring at the couple, interested by their animated conversation. They didn't seem Austrian; their German was fractured and she could hear it was not their native tongue. The man wore funny spectacles: not round and wired rimmed, but pulled back around his head. His well-tailored suit suggested wealth and good taste. His companion was an attractive woman and, from their closeness, Marie inferred they were married.

She must have lost track of time because, before she knew it, Marie heard the boarding call: "En voiture, s'ils vous plait!"

As she was turning towards the train, she saw the couple joined by two men and a station attendant. One man, who appeared to be an officer, although Marie did not recognize his uniform, was lifting the other, older and wheel chair bound. Marie was so impressed by how easily the officer carried the man that she was surprised when they were suddenly standing right beside her. She blinked and heard a gruff, "Excuse us" before gathering herself and letting them by.

She followed the group inside and was suddenly warmed by the heat generated by the train.

A curiosity fueled by boredom propelled her to follow them past her own compartment. They traveled a bit further down the car before splitting into two groups: the young couple heading into one compartment, the officer and the invalid into the one across the way.

She watched them disappear before reluctantly heading back.

---

"Marie, there are so many handsome young men on board, don't you think?"

"Raven... "

"Hush, Robert. I wasn't talking to you. Well, Marie? Has anyone caught your eye?"

Marie took her time chewing the piece of chicken in her mouth. Dinner was always like this. Raven never failed to find a way to make her food taste like paper.

Pushing her plate aside, Marie took her napkin and wiped her mouth. "No, Raven," she replied slowly. "No handsome young man has caught my eye."

Raven took a sip of her wine. "Well, dear, I certainly hope it's not because of that incident with David."

A strained smile formed on Marie's face. "Of course not, Raven."

"... Because, you know, no young man is worth so much heartache. While it's true he preferred that hussy from Selma, that's no reason for you to feel badly. No, indeed." Marie watched as Raven began playing with her wedding ring: an ostentatious affair with a large diamond attached. "You haven't had another beau since have you?"

"Would you like more dessert, darling?" Robert Darkholme quickly interjected.

"No. Now, Robert, quit interrupting me!"

Marie tuned the couple out as they began arguing. Right on schedule, she thought. She was about to excuse herself when she noticed the group that boarded in Vienna enter the dining car.

It was the young couple. They had both changed and were looking quite refreshed, although he was still wearing his silly-looking spectacles. It always amazed Marie to encounter couples so at ease with each other, so perfectly content. Her mother had died when she was very young and Marie had never really had a chance to see that interaction between her parents. Her father married Raven when she was twelve. Their marriage was turbulent, at best. Robert Darkholme tried making the best of the situation, for he certainly loved his wife ... or lusted after her, thought Marie. She was young - much younger than he - and extremely good-looking. Something she used to her complete advantage. In any case, Raven controlled everything; easiness and contentment were not words used to describe that relationship.

She watched as they looked over the menu for the night and spoke to the attendant. Straining to hear, she realized they were speaking English, their accents most assuredly American. Marie wondered vaguely why the officer had not joined them. Perhaps he was spending his evening with the other man, who would be unable to leave their compartment. Was the older man his father? They didn't really look alike. The officer was dark and ruddy. There was something unkempt about his appearance. His hair was longer than it should have been and he had a fair amount of growth on his face. In contrast, the older man was well groomed: his suit was neatly pressed and he definitely shaved more regularly than his companion. His scalp had been completely devoid of hair and Marie considered whether he shaved that as well.

The attendant had left them and the couple was left to converse alone. Marie knew it was rude, but she leaned closer to hear what they were saying:

"Charles was tipped off. He's not sure when it's going to happen but it has to happen soon. Lensherr is just about out of money. He needs to pull off this job if he's going to finance his scheme."

The woman sighed and looked around the car. Marie averted her gaze but continued listening.

"I just don't think it makes sense, Scott. A train? Certainly there would have been easier targets. Whatever Eric has planned, it has to take place in Constantinople."

The man, Scott, had removed his glasses and was cleaning the lenses with a fine cloth. Marie noticed his eyes were a beautiful shade of blue, quite unlike any she'd seen before. She wondered why he had to ruin his handsome face by wearing such strangely made spectacles. "I know it sounds strange, Jean," he said. "But all we have to go by is the professor's contact. And they're usually very reliable."

Jean simply shook her head, but seemed content to drop that topic of conversation. The next thing she said was, "How do you think Charles is getting along with the new man?"

An indecorous snort escaped the young man's lips. "I haven't had a chance to talk to him alone yet. His guard is on him all day long." He paused as the attendant returned, this time bearing a bottle of champagne. The amber liquid was poured into two glasses and the waiter retreated. When he was out of range, Scott continued, "There's something about that man that strikes me odd. The professor trusts him with his life, yet we hardly know him."

Marie watched Jean sip her champagne carefully. She seemed to be avoiding her companion's gaze. Finally, she put the glass back on the table and shrugged. "I don't know, Scott. Charles told me they had an understanding, but that's all he would say."

"And he's so guarded," Scott interjected. "It's impossible to get a word out of him." His demeanor shifted; his back straightened and he put his spectacles back on. "I don't like the way he looks at you."

Reaching out, Jean took his hand in hers. Marie felt the sudden urge to look away; such gestures were beyond her scope of comprehension. "You have nothing to worry about," she heard Jean say.

Visibly relaxed by her touch, Scott leaned back in his seat. "It's not you I'm worried about," he replied easily.

"He's harmless," she countered.

"Harmless?" Scott leaned forward and took a large drink from his glass. "Harmless is not a word I would use to describe that man."

"Marie? Marie! Are you listening to me?" The shrill voice drowned out any other sound and Marie was forced to look back at its owner.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Robert spoke for his wife, who looked too infuriated to do anything but seethe. "I'm taking Raven back to our compartment, Marie. She has a headache. Will you be coming back with us?"

The possibility of having any contact at all with the trembling body of rage sitting next to her father gave Marie pause. She might have been willing to go back to her compartment alone, but if they were leaving perhaps she'd stay a while longer. It was possible she'd even regain her appetite without Raven there to ruin it.

"I think I'll stay a while longer."

Her father nodded and stood up. He reached out to help his wife stand, but the angry woman was already on her feet and headed out the compartment. "I'm sorry, Father," Marie whispered.

Robert looked down at her but said nothing. Instead, he slowly followed Raven out of the dining car.

---

Marie sat in the smoking car alone, realizing that this had become a habit for her.

The rest of dinner had been uneventful. She had eaten what remained on her plate, thankful for Raven's premature departure. The young couple, Scott and Jean, had ceased all conversation on arrival of their meal. All she'd been able to do was watch as they ate in perfectly calm silence.

Remembering the events of that afternoon, Marie thought of the young French condocteur who'd spoken so freshly to her. It seemed odd to her now, that she never had seen him before that. At first, it had seemed fairly coincidental. After all, the train was fairly large. However, all of the other condocteurs could be spotted regularly making their rounds.

And what had Jean and Scott been discussing? They apparently thought something was about to happen on the train; what exactly, Marie didn't know. Still, it intrigued her that they should be so aware of any eminent danger, when the chef du train and all the condocteurs had no clue. For if they did, they would stop the train, wouldn't they?

Marie chewed her upper lip, trying to piece together what they'd been saying about the men they'd arrived with. The older gentleman, Scott had referred to as a professor. What sort of professor wondered Marie, idly concerned that she was spending her time building terrific conjectures.

It seemed strange to her, the way they regarded the other man, the officer. Scott especially seemed rather hostile. Marie smiled to herself. Of course, he would be, seeing as the man had been looking at his wife. And Jean had blown the whole affair aside, saying that the officer was harmless. Marie had to agree with Scott. One look at that man had told her he was definitely not harmless.

The scent of cigar smoke wafted across the car. Marie looked up to find the object of her thoughts sitting across the way, legs lazily splayed before him. He held a newspaper before him, and a cigar was wedged firmly between his lips. He was in civilian clothes now. The pants fit him nicely, Marie thought, even though they weren't as well tailored as Scott's or the professor he protected.

Indeed, Marie had to admire the way his clothes hung off his physique. She thought about how carefully made her father's clothing was, and how it never looked quite right: his small belly protruded outward or his shoulders sagged. Her father was not an unattractive man, but the years and Raven had worn him down. The man sitting before her obviously had no such worries bearing on him. No, he seemed to be in his absolute prime.

She had been staring, she realized when he looked up from his paper and frowned. Instinctively, his head turned towards her and she had to quickly avert her gaze. It hadn't been quickly enough, for she had found herself caught. She could feel his eyes on her. Feigning indifference, she began to play with the cuff of her blouse. She turned her head slightly and gave him a sidelong glance, but he had apparently lost interest and returned to his reading.

While flirting with a stranger had once held it's charm, Marie now found it distasteful. Besides, it wasn't as if this particular stranger was paying any attention.

Suddenly quite tired, Marie decided to retire to her compartment.

She looked once more toward the officer - who was still quite content at looking at his newspaper - and walked out of the smoking car. Before she reached the next door of the car, she felt a big hand close around her waist. Another closed around her mouth, muffling her scream.

Instinct overrode all thought as she brought a heel down on her attacker's foot. The man let out a yelp, temporarily loosening his grasp on Marie. She took the opportunity to squirm away from him, driving an elbow into his gut. She was about to do so again when the man behind her was pulled away with a force that left her off-balance. Her knees hit the ground and she had to pivot in order to see just what had happened.

She turned just in time to catch the mysterious officer driving a hard fist into the face of the condocteur she'd met, Remy.

"Merde! What are you doing?" Remy called out, before the larger man could repeat the assault. "I know the girl. I was merely saying hello."

"Didn't look like she wanted you saying hello." The officer looked back at Marie. "Is that true? Do you know him?"

Marie frowned, unsure of what had happened, or what to think. "I - yes. I know him." The man dropped his hold on Remy's collar. "But I certainly don't know him well enough for him to be grabbing me!" She turned to the fallen man. "Your superior is going to hear of this."

"Oh, please Marie. I was being friendly, yes?"

"No!"

Interrupting, the officer said, "Get out of here. The miss didn't want you touching her. You're lucky I don't bash your face in."

Scrambling to his feet, Remy muttered, "Again?" He quickly exited the car, rubbing his jaw and dabbing at his bloody lip as he went.

Once the condocteur was out of sight, the officer held out a hand to Marie, who still found herself kneeling on the train floor.

She ignored his hand and stood unaided. "Thank you," she said. "I can manage."

He nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Of course."

Shaking off any dust that may have gathered on her skirt, she added, "And I was doing fine with him."

The officer remained insufferably amused. "So I saw. You're a real warrior." He chuckled. "Stepping on his foot was - yeah, you're a rogue, all right."

"Rogue? Me? Listen, mister -- "

"Logan."

"Mr. Logan -- "

"Just Logan."

She smiled her best southern belle smile. "Thank you, Mr. Logan, I appreciate all you've done, really."

"But you were doing fine."

She frowned. Was he making fun of her? "Yes, I was."

"Okay, rogue, let's just say I was your reinforcement. That sound good to you?" He was having entirely too good a time, she thought.

"My name's Marie, sir. Not 'rogue'." She'd meant to sound firm and decisive but, somehow, her tone mimicked his.

He raised an eyebrow as a slow smile spread across his face. "I'll keep that in mind." His countenance darkened suddenly. "Are you sure that guy was only kidding around with you?"

She hadn't thought of the possibility that Remy might have actually wanted to harm her in some way. The idea disturbed her.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't really know him at all." Then, perhaps to assuage her own concern she added, "I'm sure it was a simple joke."

"It didn't look like you thought he was joking at the time."

Marie's eyes met his. "He shouldn't have been touching me."

Logan nodded but didn't say anything.

"I have to go," she said, feeling the after effects of the incident. She was shaken and unsure and needed to feel safe in her own compartment.

"Would you like me to walk you?"

She shook her head, relieved that he'd offered himself, but not wanting him to get the wrong idea. "I can --"

"Manage," he finished for her. "I know." He gave her a small smile and retreated back into the smoking car.

Watching him walk away, she thought about how unfortunately exciting the trip had become.

If she'd known then how prophetic her thought was, she would have cursed the day she ever stepped foot aboard the Orient Express.

---

It was four in the morning when it happened and she knew the exact time because she distinctly heard a loud groan and a shriek and a screaming voice asking what time it was. Distinctly she heard her father say, "It's four in the a.m."

At first, she thought she was back home in her bed, listening to one of the many arguments that woke her from her sleep. But when she felt the grinding of gears and the persistent dragging motion beneath her, she knew. Somehow, and for some reason, the train was stopping. She sat up in her bunk just as her father walked into her compartment.

He was bleary-eyed, his hair mussed and wild. He'd forgotten his robe and was only wearing his silk pajamas. His feet were bare. "Marie, wake up," he said into the darkened compartment.

"I'm awake, Father," she responded, voice hoarse.

"The train..."

"Why has it stopped?" she asked before he could continue. The train had not completely stopped she realized, but had slowed dramatically and was slowing still.

Her father shook his head. "I don't know, sweetheart, but I'm going to find out. Just stay here, Marie. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not," she whispered. And she wasn't. But since childhood, her father always made it a point to tell her that if ever he left her alone. Don't be afraid. She hadn't realized until that moment how comforting his words were.

A few moments after her father disappeared, Marie felt the train screech to a halt. For an instant there was complete silence. Then she heard the enraged voices of passengers coming from the compartments around hers. She felt footsteps outside as they went the way of her father: to find out just what had happened. Somewhere in the train a baby was crying, jerked awake when the lulling motion of the locomotive had stopped.

Marie waited an interminable hour for her father to return. When he did not she changed out of her sleeping gown and went into the adjacent compartment where Raven was sound asleep.

"Raven? Raven, wake up." It took a good, hard shake to awaken the older woman, who uttered a long string of curses when she finally did open her eyes.

"What do *you* want?"

"Where's Father?"

Already pulling her bedclothes back over her head, Raven replied, "How should I know? He went to check on something."

"The train, Raven. He went to see why the train isn't moving." Undaunted by her stepmother's obvious disinterest, Marie continued, "He left well over an hour ago. He should be back."

"So? I don't keep track of him. Go find him, if you're so worried." With that, she turned over and muttered, "We're on a train, for goodness' sake. Even Robert isn't stupid enough to get lost on a *train*."

Before long, Raven's breathing deepened and Marie could see she was asleep again. How can she sleep, she thought, with so much happening?

Deciding maybe Raven's idea hadn't been such a bad one - maybe she should seek her father out - Marie headed out of the compartment. A glint of silver caught her eye as she exited and she saw her father's pocket watch sitting on his pillow. Without another thought, she grabbed it and tucked it in the pocket of her fine linen jacket.

---

"Logan?"

"Hmm?"

"What's happening?" Charles Xavier's usual intuition had vanished under the cover of sleep. Dazed, he sat up and looked at his guardian who simply sat passively and smoked a cigar.

"Summers went to find out, but I have an idea."

"What?"

"Ever been caught in a snow drift, Chuck?"

"Luckily, no."

"Well, I have. Trains in Canada get stranded all the time. At least, where I'm from." He shook his head and laughed. "Sorry, Charles, but I think we're stuck." Logan stood and pointed his cigar at the window. "White. We're surrounded by it. It's harder to tell at night, but the dawn's coming and everyone'll see."

"What will we do?"

"Wait. They're going to have to dig us out. Hopefully, it won't take too long. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise?"

Logan smiled coldly. "With the train stopped like this? It's going to get pretty bad in a few days. Hell, in a few hours. It'll get to be freezing pretty soon. They don't store too much food, either. That'll be a problem." Xavier's sudden look of distress made Logan chuckle. "Hey, don't worry. Fancy shit like this probably has it all planned out for emergencies like this one."

Charles sighed. "That is not what worries me. I'm worried about Eric's response. I'm worried about what he might do."

Scowling, Logan shrugged. "What can he do?" he asked. "He's stuck, same as everyone else."

"Maybe, but Eric has his resources."

Logan snorted. "Well, he'd have to have a pretty big shovel packed in his suitcase then." He paused and puffed on his cigar. "I don't understand. Why go to the trouble? If he needs money so badly, why not just rob a bank or something?"

"There are some very wealthy people on this train, Logan."

"Doesn't answer my question. Banks aren't poor, Charles."

"No, but they are faceless institutions."

Raising a brow, Logan leaned forward and asked, "So, this Eric's a sadist then? He gets off on hurting people?"

Xavier lowered his head. "It's not that simple," he replied.

"Isn't it?"

"Eric has suffered much during his life. There are things that have happened to him... I wouldn't wish them on anyone."

"Not even your worst enemy?"

There was a long pause during which neither of them said a word. Logan waited for Xavier to respond, but he never did. Before Logan could pry further, Scott walked hurriedly into the compartment.

"Professor, I'm afraid I've some bad news."

Logan smirked. "Snow drift?"

Scott opened his mouth speak at the same moment but shut it promptly at Logan's words. He nodded sullenly, instead.

"Are they doing anything to correct the situation?" enquired Xavier.

Scott cleared his throat and shook his head. Logan thought he'd never seen anyone stand more upright than Scott Summers. It was damned annoying.

"Digging out the train is out of the question for the moment," he was saying. "The chef du train plans on sending some men to the nearest village for supplies until the weather clears."

"How far's the nearest village?" asked Logan.

"About a kilometer from here."

"Big job." And it was. He couldn't imagine a few men digging through freezing snow for a kilometer.

Sighing, Scott readjusted his spectacles and responded simply, "Yes."

Reaching over to take a jacket, Logan said, "I'm going to check it out."

"I told you -- "

Logan stubbed out his cigar and shrugged into his jacket. "I know what you said." He turned to Xavier and asked, "You'll be all right with the boy?"

Xavier nodded but remained silent.

Exiting the compartment, Logan called out, "Keep your eyes open, boy. All of them."

---

"Things have changed."

" 'Spose so."

"I think taking the girl isn't very practical now."

"Non? Never was if you ask me."

"Darkholme is worth millions."

"Wife won't pay."

"I spotted one of Xavier's lackeys walking around."

"Is that bad?"

"You don't know Charles Xavier."

"Non. Why would he care what you do?"

"Xavier thinks he is mankind's savior."

"Delusions of grandeur?"

"Or assuaging his guilt."

"Guilt?"

"Long story."

"If we're not doing this job, I got plenty of time."

"We're doing it. But there's been a change of objective."

"Oh?"

"We're taking Robert Darkholme. And teaching Charles Xavier a lesson in the process."

---

Logan was walking towards the main car when he heard them: the sharp screams of a man being beaten. He'd heard them often before, and he wasn't going to wait around to see who they belonged to. Running towards the sound, Logan soon discovered its source. He slid open the compartment door, his eyes immediately narrowing at what he saw. "You!" he growled, stepping toward two men, one bound, gagged, and unconscious; the other holding tell tale rope.

"Oui." Remy LeBeau smiled his best smile, winked, and said, "Good night, mon ami."

Logan heard the whoosh of steel rushing down on him. "What the f -- "

It was too late. The bar landed on his head with a sickening thud. Sharp pain preceded the darkness.

"Logan? Logan, can you hear me?"

A sea of images swam before his eyes before consolidating into one familiar

form. "Jean."

"What happened?" she asked, pulling a handkerchief from her purse. "Here, put this to the back of your head."

Attempting to sit up proved impossible when a wave of dizziness overtook him. "Shit." He put a hand to his head, feeling the thickening blood on his fingers. He gingerly placed Jean's handkerchief to the wound, wincing at the sting it caused. "You can tell Chuck," Logan hissed. "That his friend's pulled one out of his hat."

"What?"

"Lensherr," he clarified. "Would a kidnapping be his style? Would he have people working for him?"

"What happened, Logan?" she insisted, exasperation forming on her fine features.

Logan groaned as he attempted to sit up once again. This time, he was successful. "I walked in on what looked to be a kidnapping. Guy doing the dirty work was a conductor, or so he claimed when I first ran into him." Eyes widening, Logan cursed. "He was grabbing a girl then. Could be related. Couldn't grab the girl, so he grabbed this other passenger?"

Jean shook her head, aware of the ever-growing crowd that surrounded them. She helped Logan to his feet and together they began walking towards Xavier's compartment. "What did the man look like?"

"Tall, thin. Fairly young, I suppose." Logan paused. "And he was French."

"LeBeau."

"What?"

Smiling apologetically, Jean replied, "Nothing. Did you see anyone else?"

"No. Just the poor guy he had tied up. Beat up pretty bad, too."

A commotion at the front of the car made them both turn their heads. A group of people had gathered around and it was hard to tell just what they were looking at.

Logan, still holding the handkerchief to his head, made his way into the crowd. The tiny chef du train, Monsieur Lagier, was trying to calm a hysterical woman shrieking loudly about her husband. Logan's ears perked up. When he noticed the girl standing quietly – yet gazing attentively at Lagier – he knew what it was about.

"This is absolutely ridiculous! I mean, it's been hours. His daughter searched up and down this train looking for him. There was no trace! Now, I want you to go find my husband." Logan glared openly at the shouting woman.

She sounded more like someone who'd lost her purse than her husband. A simple look at her elegant dress and fashionably bobbed hair told him she was wealthy. The way she stood, the way she looked down at the chef du train, told him she was also used to getting her way.

The young woman next to her stood out in sharp contrast. The rogue, he thought, almost smiling. Yes, she'd been more than willing to defend herself. And she had been able to squirm away from that slimy French conductor. The way she held herself next to the blubbering hysterical woman – quietly determined to find out all she could, eyes watery but inquisitive –told him plenty about her.

Logan glanced at Jean, making sure she understood what he was about to do. She nodded. Taking a step forward, Logan cleared his throat and said, "I think I might be of help here."

"Pardon, sir? You have information regarding the whereabouts of madam's husband?" asked the chef du train.

Logan's jaw tightened. He really didn't want to cause a panic by announcing one of the train's occupants had been kidnapped. They'd had enough of a shock with the snowdrift. "I believe so," he said carefully. "Will you two ladies come with me please?"

The older woman looked like she was about to protest, but Marie answered first. "Yes." She looked expectantly at her stepmother. "Are you coming, Raven?"

Raven considered the possibility for a split second before replying, "No. You go. I've developed a headache." He tall, lithe body began pushing through the crowd, a scornful gaze thrown at anyone in her path. "That father of yours is an irresponsible fool," she threw back at Marie.

Logan watched as the girl blushed furiously, staring as her stepmother faded into the background. He almost felt sorry for her… When she turned to look at him, however, the sheer determination in her eyes expelled any such thoughts from his head. This was not a woman to feel sorry for.

"Lead the way, Mr. Logan," she said, softly but firmly.

A look at Jean told him he should follow her. Probably to Xavier's compartment. "All right," he said, turning towards Marie. "Excuse us a moment."

Motioning Jean out of the girl's earshot, he whispered, "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why?"

Logan sighed. "Well, I think the news will be shocking enough. Imagine being in a roomful of strangers, telling you an international terrorist has kidnapped your father…"

"What did you have in mind?"

Logan glanced at the girl, who was staring openly at them. "I'll tell her."

"Logan - "

"She knows me," he continued. "More than any of you, anyhow." He paused. "And I think she can help us."

Jean frowned. "How do you mean?"

The girl cleared her throat loudly and Jean and Logan both turned to look at her simultaneously. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt," she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "I really need to know about my father."

Logan gave Jean a hard look, an indication that his mind had been made up. To Marie he said: "I'm sorry. Listen, we can talk in the smoking car."

Marie blanched considerably. "Will this take very long? I just want to know where my father is. I don't see why this - "

Jean interrupted, more adept at handling people than Logan. "It's fine, miss. Logan just needs to speak with you privately. The smoking car is as good a place as any, with so many people walking about." She smiled - a calculated effort to calm the increasingly nervous young woman.

Some color returned to her face and Logan could see Jean's tactic was working, if only because the girl was less prone to fits of hysteria than her mother. "All right," he heard her say. She began walking toward the smoking car before anyone had a chance to say anything else.

A final look at Jean and Logan was off after her, mentally rehearsing what the hell he would say to this woman about her father. What he could say, to make it as painless as possible. He shook his head, knowing the impossibility of that. Wondering how he'd gotten himself into the situation in the first place.

---

She sat across from him, eyes wide and expectant. "I don't know quite how to say this," he began. "So, I'll just say it."

"Is he dead?" She was biting her lip so hard it was bleeding. He shook his head. "What is it then?" Her whole body was shaking and Logan was sorry he wasn't better at hiding what he was thinking.

Logan began where he thought he should. In the beginning. "I work for a man named Charles Xavier. He's rich as Midas, big time philanthropist, and dedicates his time to - "

"Combating evil," she interrupted. "I know who he is. What does all this have to do with my father?"

"I was going to say something else, but I suppose that's true in a way." He paused, not quite sure of what to say next. What could he tell her of Eric Lensherr? "Your father, Marie, has been kidnapped…"

If her face had not turned ash white, if tears hadn't bubbled instantaneously in her eyes, Logan would have continued with his explanation. As it was, he remained stone still, amazed at what he saw. He'd never been good with dealing with human emotion. And he had expected her to react badly. Not like this.

She was trembling, shaking to the core it seemed. Crying seemed a mild way of putting what she was doing. She seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Logan moved to sit next to her, to place a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, and the fury in her voice made Logan stand up, to back away from her. He knew the compartment was empty, but was afraid someone outside had heard her shouting.

Marie had wrapped her arms about herself; she was crying and rocking and shaking and Logan had absolutely no idea what to do. "I'm sorry," he murmured, closing the distance between them. "I can help…" His fingers reached for hers but she pulled away violently.

"Don't," she hissed. Then something in her eyes changed; she looked at him with new recognition in her eyes. "I'm sorry. Please. Just don't," she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

"I won't hurt you," he said softly, not touching her, not quite moving away.

"What do they want?" she asked between deep breaths. "Money? I'll give them whatever they want."

He looked at her: eyes closed, trying to even out her breathing. Logan wondered why she hadn't asked any questions. Why she wasn't wondering how he knew her father had been kidnapped? Or even, who had done it?

"What does he want?" she asked, voice less shaky.

"Who?" Had she gone into shock?

"Eric Lensherr," she replied, finally meeting his eyes with her own, bloodshot and still teary. She narrowed them suddenly and something inside Logan twisted. "What does he want?"

November 13, 1922, Orient Express, some miles outside Vienna, Austria

The Orient Express was buried in snow. Workers - dressed as warmly as possible, nevertheless shivering from the intense cold - worked tirelessly to dig what they could. Severe snowstorms hampered their efforts, often bringing them to a standstill. An impartial onlooker would have laughed at their seemingly futile toil.

Erik Lehnsherr was not one to sit idly by while others worked. Nor was he one to wait for his fortune to come to him. "The weather," he told one of his men, "is not an impediment."

So, they dug. They dug when all others refused to go out into freezing Austrian night. They dug because Eric Lensherr asked it of them.

Remy LeBeau, however, did not consider himself to be one of Lehnsherr's men. He did not owe allegiance of any sort to him. As men older and weaker than him slaved away, he huddled in his trench coat, rolled a cigarette, and waited.

Next to him, unconscious or asleep or dead from the cold - who cared? - lay Robert Darkholme, his ticket to an early retirement.

"You'd do well to make yourself useful." The voice came from behind, but Remy did not turn. He knew to whom it belonged.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled, and responded calmly, "I got you him." The ash of Remy's cigarette landed by Darkholme's expensive shoes. "That's useful enough."

"Yes," the voice responded, equally calm. "But you were supposed to get the girl."

Remy snorted. He knew this game. He'd played it often enough with the kind of people he worked with. He wouldn't be cheated of his hard-earned money. Not this time. "Makes no difference. The girl will pay beaucoup dollars. And I get paid."

"It's not always about the money, LeBeau." The voice had turned icy; Remy didn't like where the conversation was headed.

"What's it about? Sending a message to your friend Xavier?" Remy laughed mirthlessly. "You got to get yourself a better hobby, mon ami."

Two hands grabbed Remy LeBeau's collar from behind, effectively choking him. "You know nothing about my business with Xavier," Lehnsherr hissed close to his ear, all the while holding on tightly to the collar. "Don't ever speak of it."

Jerking away, Remy brought a hand to sooth the pain in his neck. He had underestimated the man. Erik Lehnsherr was stronger than he looked. "Don't matter. I don't care no how." He brought out paper to roll another cigarette, more out of a need to keep himself occupied than a desire to smoke. "I just want to get paid."

But Lehnsherr was no longer listening. His interest was diverted by one of his men: a man that had gone ahead to scout out possible hideouts. "Victor," Remy heard him say. "What have you found?"

"A couple of miles down, small village," replied the tall blond. "Fairly deserted. It shouldn't be difficult to hole up there."

Looking pleased, Lehnsherr nodded and turned his attention to Remy again. "It looks like you'll be getting what you want, friend. Sooner than we'd hoped."

---

"Lehnsherr? How do you know about Lehnsherr?"

She shook her head, fresh tears rising in her eyes.

He sat next to her, careful not to touch. "If I'm going to help - "

"I don't need your help," she replied obstinately. But he could see her waver. "Just tell me what he wants. I'll do it."

Logan shrugged. He could feel himself become exasperated and he tried to quell the emotion. "I don't know what he wants."

Marie looked confused. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"If it wasn't for the fact that I saw it with my own eyes, I wouldn't know it happened," he replied tersely.

"There's been no demand, a ransom demand?" She was looking nervous and he began to wonder how many emotions she'd be able to go through in the span of a minute.

"None that I know of," he said. "And your mother - "

"She's not my mother," she said, and he could see the words had been uttered more vehemently than intended. More calmly, she added, "Raven is my father's second wife."

He said, "All right" and left it at that.

"How do you know about Lehnsherr, rogue?" The nickname slipped out unwittingly but she didn't seem to notice. She didn't even look up.

"Hey." He nudged her with his shoulder and watched as she winced, as if in pain.

"It's a long story," she said, numbly.

He nodded his understanding. "Well, we don't have a lot of time. Could you summarize it for me?"

Marie turned angry eyes on him. "It's not something you summarize."

"I'm sorry," he replied honestly. "But I want to help and I need to know what you know in order to do that."

She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as if expelling an inner demon. "Let's just say," she told him, "my family has encountered Erik Lehnsherr in the past."

Her deep accent and sad voice cut into him and Logan wondered why Lehnsherr would follow a family from the American South all the way to Europe. Was Darkholme as rich as that?

"I don't understand."

"Frankly, Mr. Logan, neither do I."

---

It hadn't taken too long to explain to Xavier what was going on. After all, there wasn't much to tell.

The Rogue - not looking at all like the name Logan had given her - was sitting in one corner of the compartment, eyes downcast and seemingly calm. But, thought Logan, probably in shock and starting to shut down.

Scott Summers was talking: "It's obvious why we haven't heard from him yet. He's still close. He didn't want to tip his hand until he was far enough away not to get caught."

Logan had to give the kid that one. "So, what now?" he asked. "We go digging in the snow, looking for him and his henchmen?" He had the unnatural urge to laugh. This was proving to be too ridiculous, even for one of Xavier's schemes.

"I think," replied Scott, eyes still on Xavier, "our first step would be to search the train. There's no reason to believe he's left it."

Logan snorted. "Yeah, well, if he's an idiot then he's still around..."

"Which is what he wants us to think," countered Scott, beginning to show signs of agitation.

"That he's an idiot?"

"Children, please." Jean Summers rolled her eyes and sighed. "This isn't the time or the place."

Xavier, for the first time since Logan began his explanation, spoke. "Jean is right. This isn't the time for your petty squabbles. Mr. Darkholme's daughter needs us now." Logan's eyes traveled to Marie, who had not moved during the conversation. "She needs us to find her father now and for that we must work together."

Logan grunted something unintelligible when he thought he heard Scott say "sorry". Then, he asked, "What do we do then, Chuck?"

"I think Scott is right," Xavier replied, quickly adding upon seeing Logan's countenance darken, "We musn't get ahead of ourselves. We must exhaust all possibility before heading out."

"And you think the chief conductor's just going to let us examine every nook and cranny on this train?"

Xavier nodded sagely. "He will once I explain what has happened. And why it is in Wagons-Lits best interest it be kept quiet."

Not fully convinced, Logan asked, "In the meantime? What now?"

"Scott, you and Jean will tell Lagier that I need to speak with him." He paused. "This would be better if we could go out in pairs," he said. Glancing at Logan, he added, "So as not to be caught unawares."

"I'll go."

Four pairs of eyes turned to the corner of the compartment.

"Miss Darkholme, I'm afraid that's out of the question," Xavier said benignly.

"If she can go," replied Marie, nodding towards Jean. "I can go."

Xavier was shaking his head. "Jean's been trained for this sort of operation - "

"He's my father."

Logan saw Xavier's hesitation and said, "I'll take care of her, Chuck. She can come with me."

"Logan, this is dangerous."

Nodding, Logan answered, "Which is why she shouldn't be alone."

"And her stepmother?"

Marie replied for him," She has nothing to do with it."

"She should at least be notified."

Standing, not looking at anyone in particular, she said, "The chef du train can tell her. It's what she deserves." Marie looked over at Logan, surprised to see him watching her intently. "Ready, Mr. Logan?"

"Logan."

She nodded. "Logan?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

Eric Lensherr. The name reverberated through Marie's head until it hurt. She walked slowly behind Logan as he knocked at one compartment after another, always asking the same questions: "Have you seen anything suspicious? If you do, would you please contact...?" All the while his eyes drifted into the rooms, making their own silent appraisal. She could almost hear him going over it in his mind: "This one's clean."

"You all right?"

Looking up, she realized Logan had made his way to the end of the train without her. How long had she been standing in the same spot? "I'm fine."

"Come on," he said. "There's nothing here."

"Where are we going?"

He looked pleased when he said it, she thought. As if it were proof that he didn't give a good goddamn what Xavier and Scott Summers thought. He was going to do whatever he wanted. The single word was enough to drive a shiver up her spine: "Out."

"I thought..."

"Don't worry. We're not going digging, if that's what you're thinking. There's a car at the end of the train that's supposed to be unoccupied. I want to make sure it is."

The outside air was as cold as that inside the train. The wind, however, made it all the colder and Marie had to huddle in her jacket, trying to keep from freezing. Her attire was wholly unsuitable for their trek through the snow. She walked beside Logan, moving hurriedly to keep up. With each step, her feet soaked up more of the cold. "If my toes fall off, it'll be your fault," she muttered.

He looked down at her, smiling faintly. "Sorry. Not too much longer," he said, nodding toward the final car.

More snow was beginning to fall, making the walk all the more difficult. "It's getting hard to see."

Logan grabbed hold of her arm - ignored the sudden stiffening of her body - and replied, "Almost there."

"How will we get in?" she asked once they were finally standing before the car.

A ring of keys was dangled before her. "That Lagier guy is careless."

The large padlock was easily disposed of and Logan slid the heavy door open wide enough for them to step inside.

Swinging himself up, Logan made his way in first. It was dark, darker than he would have liked. He took out a match, which he used to illuminate his surroundings. A storage car, he noted. Nothing more.

He turned to exit when he saw the blur of white. "Shit."

Extending an arm into the storm, Logan hoped the figure outside - faintly visible through the quickly falling snow - would be able to see it.

A cold, wet glove encircled his fingers and he pulled.

---

Marie scrambled into the darkness. The door was shut behind her and for a second, she could only see black. "Damn. You all right?"

She nodded, realized he couldn't see her, and said, "I'm fine. What are we going to do?"

"Hold on."

A single spark, the faint odor of sulphur, and Logan's face was lit. He was on his feet in seconds, looking through the contents crammed in the car. Marie watched as he made his way through a maze of boxes. It was several minutes before he returned, carrying a blanket in hand. "Here. You're soaking." The match in his hand burned out again. "That was my last one." His voice was close. She could here him sitting next to her. The blanket was pressed against her leg. "Take it."

"Thank you," she whispered, grateful for the offering. She wrapped herself in it, and asked again, "What should we do?"

"Wait," he replied simply. "We wouldn't be able to see our hand in front of our face in that storm." She felt his arm against her, he was sitting so close, and she had to fight the urge to move away. "It should die down soon."

"It's dark," Marie said, feeling stupid for stating the obvious, still wanting to hear his voice, to be reassured.

"Yeah, there aren't anymore matches and I couldn't find a lamp. Too late now I guess." She felt his fingers on the blanket. "This is going to get too damp to do you any good. You should take off some of the wet clothes."

She scoffed at that. "I don't think so."

He laughed. "Don't worry. You're perfectly safe. And I can't see a damned thing anyway."

"It's okay, really. I'll be fine."

She could almost feel him smirking. "Suit yourself, rogue, but don't freeze to death for modesty's sake."

"I wish you would stop calling me that."

"What? Rogue? I think it's an appropriate nickname."

"We don't know each other well enough to be giving out nicknames."

"Well, what do you want to know? I think it's safe to say we've got some time on our hands."

"You're less surly and more talkative than I expected, Mr. - I mean, Logan."

"Why do you say that?" He sounded amused.

"I don't know. I guess... it's just you seem like a very tough character. And, I suppose you're a lot more amiable than you appear."

"I'm not sure how to take that," he said, chuckling.

"Well, I hope."

There was a pause, before he said, "You still haven't told me about your connection to Lensherr."

"No, I haven't."

"You want to?" Silence. "Hey?"

"The dark is making me nervous."

He reached out a hand, but felt her pull away. She was trembling. "I told you to get out of those clothes. At least your jacket - "

"I'm not cold."

"What is it about the dark?" he asked. "You afraid of the boogey man?" He was teasing her.

"Not exactly."

"Then tell me."

She sighed and wrapped the blanket tightly around herself. "There isn't that much to say, really." A moment of silence and the dark seemed to have a life of it's own. "Lensherr likes kidnappings. It's probably how he makes his living."

Logan didn't say anything, opting to let her continue if she would. After a long pause, she did. Her voice was cold as she began relating her story. "I was fourteen. We were staying in Meridian. My father's family home is there. One night, he and my brother went to a social affair at an associate's estate. I kissed them good night and went to bed. When I awoke, it was to find my father standing over me, shaking. I'd never seen him that way." Pause. "He changed that day. We both did. My brother was the only thing we had." Logan could here the slight hitch in her breath and realized that the thin veneer of control was breaking. "Lensherr asked for a lot of money, even more than my father had at the time and my father's wealth is considerable. He did all he could, Logan. I know he did. He begged his friends, he tried borrowing from the bank. And Lensherr wouldn't budge. It was all or nothing, it seemed. Months passed. We'd just about given up hope when a letter arrived. It was from Lensherr. He still wanted his money and to prove Robert was still alive he sent an accompanying note in his handwriting." This pause was longest. Logan began to think she wouldn't continue. Then, she did; her voice was rough and teary, although he had not heard her cry. "He wrote to us, informing us he was well, that he missed us terribly and that all he wanted was to see us again. He wrote 'I love you, Marie. You're my angel.'"

"What happened?" Logan asked without thinking.

He felt the girl shift as she replied. "Nothing. It wasn't him in the end. Lensherr had forged his handwriting. When a fisherman found his body a week later, he'd been dead for quite a while."

An "I'm sorry" trickled from his mouth, sounding pathetic and inappropriate to his own ears. He knew now why she had reacted the way she had, but he still didn't know Lensherr's motives. What made him turn to the same family now, years later?

He could hear the wind howling outside, ravaging all in its wake. He didn't want to leave yet anyway; he still had questions.

She did too, apparently: "What is Charles Xavier doing here?"

"Here?" Logan knew what she was asking, but he wasn't sure he had an answer.

"Here, on the Orient Express, with Lensherr?" A heavy, pregnant pause. "They know each other, don't they?"

"Yes." For some absurd reason, he wanted to add that he didn't know Xavier very well, that he'd only been working for him a short while. He wanted to make excuses and disconnect himself from the entire set of events. "I don't know why he's here. He just always seems to know where to be, his contacts..."

"Well, he didn't know quite where to be this time, did he?" The sarcasm in her voice was evident and he wished there was something he could say to make her feel better about the situation. But there wasn't, because even he didn't know how this was going to end. Lensherr was a murderer... He shook the thought from his head.

"My father's a good man, Logan," he heard her whisper.

"I'm sure he is."

"Can I trust Xavier?"

"Yes."

She didn't say anything for a while. Then he felt her shift under the blanket. "All right. I believe you." There was a rustling sound and he knew she had discarded her linen coat. "You'd better not have a match secretly hidden there."

Logan laughed. Her words had lifted the weight of their circumstances miraculously from his shoulders. "Don't worry, rogue. Don't worry."

---

A few miles away, in a run down cabin, Eric Lensherr admired the handiwork of Remy LeBeau. The man had a talent for building fires. "It's a shame, LeBeau, that you feel the need to scorn my organization. You'd be quite an asset."

Remy LeBeau smiled and rubbed his hands before the fireplace. "Remy LeBeau is his own organization. I'm president, chief executive officer, and company man."

Eric sat on a rickety wooden chair and contemplated his surroundings. More rustic than he would have liked. He was a man of considerable taste. "And yet you find the need to associate with me to make a living?"

"Got to do business, mon ami."

On the far side of the cabin lay Robert Darkholme, a blanket haphazardly covering his body. "I was under the impression you were merely a petty thief."

"Nothing petty about it."

Scoffing, Eric stood a walked toward the Frenchman. "You were a lowly conductor, LeBeau." He turned and picked up a poker, using it to turn logs, feed the flames. "You had best be honest with me, Herr LeBeau. I have no patience for liars."

Remy merely smiled, sat on the dusty floor, and rolled a cigarette.

The car where Marie and Logan sat was becoming increasingly cold, the dampened clothes they wore aiding little in their effort to stay warm. They sat in relative silence for a long time. Once in a while, one of them would sneeze or cough. Their legs would meet on occasion, separating almost instantly. They stayed that way for an inconceivable amount of time. Finally, when she felt him shiver - and more to break the uncomfortable quiet - she asked, "Are you cold?"

"Some."

"Here." She took the blanket he had given her from around her shoulders and pressed it into his hands.

"That's too damp to do me any good." Then, "You must be freezing with that draped around you."

"No, I'm fine. It's better than nothing, really." She was freezing.

"Come here." He reached out into the darkness to touch her shoulder. "If we sit closer together, we might warm up a little."

The hand on her shoulder was cold and she thought the idea of two freezing people warming each other seemed ludicrous. "I don't think that will work."

He chuckled. "I won't try anything. Honest." Why did he feel the need to keep reminding her of that?

"It's not that." She paused and sighed. "It's difficult for me... I have a problem with people touching me. I get very uncomfortable."

"Why?" he asked, realizing it was probably none of his business, that he had no right asking.

"It's a bit silly and I'd rather not discuss it, if that's all right."

"Sure."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"What?"

"Were you in the army?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"I don't know. You were wearing a soldier's uniform that day you boarded. I just thought... Well, I didn't recognize the uniform, but it seemed like something a soldier would wear."

"It is. It's a Canadian uniform. And I suppose I was a soldier."

"You suppose?"

"Yes." He seemed reticent; it was the first time she'd heard uncertainty in his voice since she'd met him.

"You're not sure?"

"I'm sure. I just don't remember." He moved closer to her and placed his arm across her shoulders. "I'm sorry, rogue, but you're going to have to get over this touching thing or we'll freeze to death."

She didn't argue. He was right, even if it was difficult to bear. "Why don't you remember?" she pressed.

He was rubbing his hand up and down her arm; she was trying to concentrate on what he was saying. "When I woke up from whatever it is happened to me, I was in a hospice in France. I had no memory of anything that happened before that. I still don't. All I had was my uniform as proof of my identity. That was three years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not."

"And Logan...?"

He knew what she was asking. "The name that was stitched on my uniform."

He was right, she thought. She was beginning to warm up. "How did you come to work for Xavier?"

"Basically? I was trudging about looking for work when I saw an ad in an American paper. He was looking for a bodyguard. I figured I could do that, so I went for it. And that's pretty much the story."

"How long have you worked for him?"

"A couple of months."

"And you trust him."

"Yeah, I do. Hey," he had run a hand to the back of her neck, which he was beginning to rub, "don't worry, all right? We'll find your father. With or without Xavier's help."

---

A soft groan came from the corner of the room. Remy LeBeau looked up to see the body lying there begin to move. "Le resurrection du l'homme mort," he mumbled.

Robert Darkholme slowly brought a hand to the back of his head. "What? Where am I?" he asked, his voice ragged from disuse.

"Welcome back from the dead, mon ami," Remy said as he stood up and walked over to the dazed man. "Bit of a headache?"

Darkholme's glazed eyes sharpened slightly as they settled on Remy's face. "You! I know you. We were in Lagier's office and..."

"Oui, you remember. That's good." Leaning against the wall, Remy smiled down at his captive. "You'll be wanting to know what we want, non?"

"We?" Darkholme was still confused; the aftereffects of the laudanum he'd been administered were slowly wearing off.

"Money, as always, monsieur. Money for your life. We had planned on your daughter, but you were easier. Too bad, she's a pretty little thing. Might've been more entertaining, I think."

"Money..." He was beginning to catch on, thought Remy. "This is... a kidnapping? You want ransom?" Darkholme had gone even paler, if that was possible, and he looked poised to throw up whatever his dinner had been. Remy felt the bile rise in his throat and swallowed it back. "Please, please, I'll give you anything, just don't kill me. My daughter, you understand, she needs me." Desperation was distasteful to Remy, and he almost felt like hitting the man; he preferred him unconscious.

A chill air filled the room and another voice answered for Remy: "I'm afraid he has no say in this, Robert."

"Lensherr." The name was a soft cry.

"Are you surprised? It's been a long time, Robert, but you didn't think I would forget did you? We have a score to settle, you and I."

Remy watched as Robert Darkholme closed his eyes and pulled at his hair. He was rocking back and forth and looked like a man waiting to die. Perhaps he was.

"You're wondering why we bother with the charade, aren't you Robert? You ask yourself why I pretend this is a kidnapping instead of a simple homicide? Do you know why, Robert? It is hope. The hope your daughter still holds in her heart that she will find you alive. The hope I will crush as soon as she pays the money I'll ask of her."

Repulsion filled Remy as he realized what Lensherr's plans were. This wasn't about money at all. It was about revenge. Then, a question formed in his mind: If this was about revenge against Darkholme, what did part did Charles Xavier play?

---

Meanwhile, back on the Orient Express, Charles Xavier was wondering the same thing. A knock at his door broke through his reverie. "Come in," he called out.

The door to his compartment slid open and Scott and Jean walked in, looking the worse for wear after several hours of hunting through the train. "Professor," Jean said, "there's absolutely no sign of Robert Darkholme. Lagier permitted our inspection of passenger compartments."

"What was the excuse given to passengers?"

"Robbery," answered Scott, as he sat and pulled off his spectacles. "But we're afraid there's another problem, sir."

"What is it?"

"Logan and Miss Darkholme are nowhere to be found." Scott glanced at Jean and added, "I told you he couldn't be trusted. What if he's in on the kidnapping scheme?"

"He is not, Scott," Jean said, exasperated. "What we should be concerned about is whether or not something happened to the both of them."

"There is the possibility," Xavier said slowly, "that Logan was bullheaded enough to make his way into the woods. If that were the case, they would have been caught in this terrible storm." He shook his head and frowned. "I'm afraid to think what may have happened."

Scott was on his feet instantly. "Then we should go look for them."

"No, Scott. I don't want you going into that storm. We'll have to wait until it subsides and hope for the best. For now, I want you and Jean to take another look around the train, pray that you somehow missed them in the commotion."

---

"Miss Darkholme, are you awake?" He could hear her steady breathing, felt the way her body had relaxed beneath his arm.

A small groan broke through the silence and he heard her whisper, "Yes."

"Good. Don't fall asleep, all right? I'm worried about hypothermia." As he talked, he began vigorously rubbing her arms, trying to shake her into lucidity. "I think this thing's dying down. We'll be able to leave soon."

"Marie."

"What?"

"Call me Marie."

"All right." He was still busy rubbing her arms when one of his hands got tangled in her hair. It was still damp. He heard her hiss of pain. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's all right," she replied, even as she pulled away. "You can stop now. I'm fine."

"All right."

"You really think we'll be able to leave soon?" she asked, her teeth shattering

"I think so."

"Then what?"

"Then," he replied, "we'll go back and change clothes and start all over again."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For helping me. I don't know what I would have done, if not for you."

"You're welcome, then." He thought he heard her sniffle, guessed it was the cold, but changed his mind when he heard her hitched breathe. "Are you crying?"

"No." Her voice betrayed her lie.

Logan moved to sit closer to her, ignoring her earlier pleas, going on the instinct that she needed comforting. He wrapped his arm around her again and heard her sigh. "I don't know," he began, "or don't remember, what it's like to lose someone close to you. I think it must be very hard. Just know that we won't let anything happen to him." He felt her head drop onto his shoulder. "Now, tell me something about your home. Something about - where'd you say you were from?" He wanted to distract her, hoped it would work.

"Mississippi."

"Well, what goes on in Mississippi? Are you in school?"

She chuckled. "Not much goes on in Mississippi. And I finished school last summer."

"What, no boys waiting for you?"

"Boys? No. There aren't any boys waiting for me."

"Come on," he teased, "pretty girl like you has to have a ton of boys hanging around."

That made her laugh outright. "Not really." There was a slight pause before she added, "Well, there was one..."

"Oh?"

"Hmm. I'm afraid he's soured me on boys, a bit."

"What happened?"

She smiled against his arm, the memory more funny now than painful. "He seemed to think it was all right to go with me and one of the neighbor's girls at the same time. He wasn't very bright, I'm afraid."

Logan shook his head, forgetting she couldn't see him. "He's an idiot, if you ask me. Why would he want another girl when he had you?"

"Thank you, that's very kind."

"I'm just being honest, Marie."

"Thank you." She was snuggled right up against his side; he smelled like soap and cigars. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Did you leave anyone behind in Canada?"

"No."

"Oh? A handsome guy like you must have had tons of girls throwing themselves at you." She was teasing him, and he was glad to hear her forget her troubles for a moment.

"Well," he replied, in a similarly playful tone, "they were, of course, but I just couldn't make my mind up about any. A guy has to look around, you see, before settling on any one woman."

Laughing, she poked him in the ribs and said, "Oh, of course. I swear, you men are all alike."

Logan grabbed her hand and held it. "Not all of us, Marie."

She cleared her throat and sat back. "Should we check to see if it's safe to leave now?"

"Yeah." He stood awkwardly - his legs were numb from the cold and from sitting too long - and moved to slide open the car door. The sunlight streaming in momentarily blinded him. It was still snowing, he saw, but very lightly. "Okay, rogue, time to get out of here."

Marie blinked into the light and nodded.

November 14, 1922, Orient Express, some miles outside Vienna, Austria

They made their way through the snow slowly, lifting one foot over it with each step. The white substance clung to her legs, seeped in through her stockings, and Marie thought she'd never been so cold, wished for a hot Mississippi summer. The flakes continued to fall and she watched as they settled on his dark coat. Logan was looking straight ahead, not at her, but his hand was clasping hers painfully.

He stopped suddenly, looking around as if he'd heard something, his gaze surveying the area. If he saw something important he did not comment on it and a moment later they were once again walking to the main car.

---

Marie slid open the door to her compartment and was surprised to see Raven sitting inside, cigarette holder in hand, scowl on her face. "Where have you been?" she asked, seemingly bored.

For a long moment Marie stood, completely disbelieving of the woman sitting in front of her. Without saying a word, she shook her head and began undressing. She removed her linen coat – ruined, she thought – and kicked off her shoes, aware that her stepmother was talking, unable and unwilling to listen.

As she began unbuttoning her skirt, she felt long, hard fingers encircle her wrist. "Look at me when I'm talking to you," Raven hissed. "Where is your father?"

Marie pulled her arm away quickly, still feeling the indentations of the fingertips on her wrist. Defiant brown eyes met steely green. "I don't think you really care to know that Raven, otherwise you would have been out there with me when Logan came to talk to us." She took one step back, resumed the task of discarding her wet clothes without talking her eyes off Raven Darkholme. "I don't think you've ever cared what happened to him, so there's no use pretending with me."

The older woman turned away and moved back to her seat. She looked oddly abashed, something Marie had never witnessed before. "I know I should have gone with you," Raven said, shakily bringing her cigarette to her mouth. "I just had a terrible headache, and you're always so much better with these sorts of things…" Her words trailed off, as if she had no clear conception of what she was saying.

By this time, Marie had donned a pair of trousers she used for skiing, and a heavy woolen sweater. She was tying the laces on her boots when she finally responded to her stepmother's question. "Father has been kidnapped, Raven. By Eric Lensherr." Her voice quavered on the final words and she prayed Raven hadn't heard the momentary weakness. If there was anyone in the world she didn't want thinking her weak, it was Raven.

A gasp escaped Raven's lips and Marie looked up in time to see the older woman bring her hand to her mouth. She looked shocked at least, thought Marie. She didn't think Raven loved her father, but maybe there was something that held her to him besides his money. "Kidnapped?" was her soft response, tinged with horror and confusion - the reply of a concerned spouse or a consummate actress, Marie wasn't entirely sure which.

"Yes." Marie opened her trunk and began searching for another coat, something that would serve her better than the one she had hastily discarded but a few minutes before, one that would keep hypothermia at bay when facing the cold, wet snow.

Raven was pacing across the small compartment, shaking her head and muttering to herself. "This isn't possible," she said. "Eric… How could this possibly be?"

Without thinking, Marie replied, "I don't know, Raven. I wish I did."

Stopping abruptly, Raven turned her gaze toward Marie. Her eyes traveled the length of her stepdaughter's body and she asked, "What are you doing? Why are you wearing that?"

It occurred to Marie that it was best for Raven not to know anything, that the more people knew, the more complicated and dangerous it would become. After all, Logan had promised not to say anything to Xavier. But one look at Raven - standing slightly hunched over, a perfectly manicured nail tapping against her teeth – made her question her decision. Raven was, after all, her father's wife. "I have to go look for him. Logan thinks he may not be far from here." Marie was proud of herself for sounding as calm and collected as she wasn't.

"Logan? Who is this Logan? That man who told you your father was kidnapped? How do we know he isn't lying? How do we know he hasn't kidnapped your father himself, and is after you as well? How can you be so stupid as to trust a complete stranger, Marie?" Raven's voice became shrill, as it often did when she was exasperated. In a matter of seconds she had gone from worried to enraged. Her hands were wrapped around Marie's forearms, and Raven was beginning to squeeze with each word she uttered. "I can't let you go out there. This is very serious and we have to inform the chef du train immediately. He must be able to bring someone out here, police, anyone - "

Marie pushed Raven's hands away again, surprised by her agitation. "Lagier already knows, Raven. And there won't be any police coming here, not anytime soon. The train can't even leave, Raven, or have you forgotten? We're absolutely trapped here and if I don't do something now, I'm going to lose my father!" She remembered there had been something important in her discard linen coat and bent down to examine the pockets. Inside was her father's pocket watch. She squeezed it briefly and placed it in the coat she was now wearing.

She turned to leave when her stepmother's voice stopped her. "Wait! Where are you going? Back outside? That's insane!"

The door had slid behind her when Marie finally deigned to answer the question. "Right. Back outside and into the woods."

---

Logan entered his compartment to find Charles Xavier inside, sitting in his wheelchair, eyes closed, and chin resting on interlaced fingers.

Moving silently, Logan shrugged out of his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt. "You awake, Chuck?" he murmured.

The lack of response was Logan's answer. He quickly changed into dry clothes.

He was scouring through one of Xavier's trunks for tools when Scott Summers walked in. "You!"

Logan turned around slowly, careful not to show his chagrin over being caught.

"What are you doing here?" Scott asked. "We've been looking everywhere! Where's Miss Darkholme?"

"Changing," was Logan's simple reply before turning back to his previous business. He wasn't going to allow the boy to waste any valuable time.

"Changing? Logan, what in Hell have you been doing?" Scott's voice was getting closer and Logan hoped he wasn't looking for a confrontation. He really didn't think he would be able to walk away from one just then.

"Yeah, changing, and I really don't think I feel like telling you what we've been doing." He had his back turned to Summers but he could feel the man standing perilously close.

"Don't ignore me, Logan." It took one hand on his shoulder to send Logan over the edge and before he knew it, he had the other man pinned to the opposite wall of the compartment, one hand on his neck, the other clenched and poised above his face. "Get off my back, boy, if you know what's good for you."

"Logan!"

Charles Xavier's voice cut through Logan's sudden rage. He let go of Scott, who was left to rub his throat, gasping for breath.

"Logan, I think you owe us an explanation."

Logan remained motionless, anger still visible on his face. His eyes met Xavier's briefly before he turned back to searching the trunk.

"Logan?"

"Don't you see, Professor? This is just what I've been telling you all along. This man is not trustworthy. The first major confrontation he's involved in and he won't even - "

"Scott, please," Xavier interrupted. "Logan, you are currently under my employ. Whatever is happening, you must inform me."

"You want to know what's happening?" Logan replied, not turning to look at the two men. "There's a girl out there missing her father, a man who's been kidnapped by someone you know, Chuck. Now, whether you like it or not, that smells funny – to the girl, at least. I don't think you can blame her for that. I am helping her. You can fire me if you want. Right now, I don't give a shit. If you're in the business of helping people, /Professor/, then you'll let me do this, because you damn sure can't.

Scott snorted loudly. "You're going to help her? Just how are you going to do that, by going out in that storm? Professor, he'll get himself and Miss Darkholme killed, and he doesn't `give a shit'."

"Logan," Xavier said, "if you think you can help her, then you're going to have to trust me, trust my judgment. You've trusted me before and I ask you do so again. I need to know what you're planning, so that we can aid you in any way we can."

It was a long moment before Logan replied. "All right, Chuck, but you have to promise" he turned to stare at Scott "that you'll let me do things my way, and that you'll keep off my back."

---

A dirty glass filled with water and hard piece of bread were placed before Robert Darkholme. "Sorry, mon ami, but it was the best I could do."

"I'm not hungry," was the response.

"Suit yourself, but you'll get hungry later and I guarantee Lensherr ain't going to give a damn."

"Why would you?" Darkholme asked cautiously.

"Me? Well, that all depends on you. I might not in a while. Or I might." Remy LeBeau reached into his pocket and smiled. He shook his head. "Bad habits, eh? They die hard. No more paper, unfortunately."

Darkholme moved his hand slowly to the inside pocket of his jacket. He retrieved a silver case and held it up.

Remy grinned. "Now, why didn't I think of that?" He snatched the case from the other man and opened it quickly. "Ready-made, monsieur? That is truly the mark of a rich man."

"About giving a damn?"

"Yeah," Remy inhaled. "About that," he exhaled. "I'm afraid a few cigarettes won't do it."

"I assumed as much," said Darkholme tiredly. "Let's discuss what will…"

---

"Hey. You ready?"

"Yes." She glanced at his companions. "Are they coming? I thought you said - "

"No. They aren't coming. It's you and me. But we might need help with a few things, and they can help."

"Oh."

"It'll be fine."

"I know."

"They're going to follow us until we find out if there's anything left to track. That way, they'll know where we're headed."

"All right."

"Can you carry a few things?"

"Yes."

"Good." He slid open the door and let her step out first. His gaze moved from her to Scott and Jean, who were standing behind him. "Let's go."

Scott and Jean had walked with them for a half-mile or so, making sure there was a trail to follow. Then, when it became apparent there wasn't one, Logan sent them back. Scott protested. Jean protested. Marie remained quiet and watched the exchange. When Scott refused to go, adamantly refused, Logan reminded him that it was best if they went back - in case the train began to move again. They could get help. His reasoning surprised Marie; she was surprised he was willing to reason with them at all. She didn't know what he was thinking of doing, how they would find her father now. They stood together in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow and trees and watched as Jean and Scott slowly headed back.

---

"What are we going to do now?" she asked, pulling her jacket more tightly around herself. They hadn't moved for five minutes.

Logan sighed and ran a hand across his face. His eyes were busy searching for something he probably knew he wouldn't find.

"Did we make a mistake?" she asked, when he didn't answer her first question. "Should we head back?"

He looked at her and his face softened. "No," he replied. "I'm just trying to think of which way to go. That's all."

Turning to stare at the white, bright snow - she'd never seen snow so clean until this trip - she asked what she feared asking the most. "What if there isn't a way to go?"

"There is." The tone was adamant and, right then, she thought she had him pegged. He was stubborn - too stubborn - and was used to getting things done. She wondered if that was an advantage now. Maybe he couldn't see what was right in front of him - or wasn't. Maybe he couldn't let go of something that he would never be able to grasp.

"We should head back," she said, not meeting his eyes. She said it because it was the sensible thing, because as much as she wanted to find her father - needed to find him - she couldn't believe in what they were doing. Couldn't believe it would work.

His heavy hands on her shoulders made her look up at him. There was a glimmer of anger in his golden eyes.and something else, something she couldn 't place. She could feel his frustration. "I'm sorry," she continued. The words brought tears to her eyes but she successfully held them back. She wasn't just apologizing to Logan. She was apologizing to her father - for being a coward. "I don't know what to do."

"You're scared," he said. She nodded. "You're scared of trying and failing. You're scared you'll lose him. Right?"

"He's all I have left," she whispered, all too aware that she had already disclosed too much to this stranger, to this man she hardly knew. She thought about her brother, about the pain she had felt when she realized she 'd lost him forever. Her father was the only family she had, the only person she could trust in implicitly. Without him, she would be completely alone - defenseless.

Logan was still holding her - perhaps trying to reassure. "That's why you have to do this. If you don't, you'll regret it."

"How do you know so much?" His fingers were weighing on her, keeping her prisoner. "I don't want to do anything stupid. What would I do - what wouldn 't I regret - if something happened to my father because I - we - marched up to Lensherr without any idea of what we're doing?" She was breaking, she could feel it, was trying to stop it. She wanted to stop thinking about everything for a minute. She wanted the weight of those fingers to stop feeling like the weight of the world. She wanted to forget that her father' s life might be in her hands.

"Hey," Logan whispered, and she could feel his warm breath - so warm against her cold skin - as he leaned in. "Look at me." She did. "I'm not going to let anything happen."

Marie stared at the man before her, trying to determine where he got his confidence. She wanted to shout at him in her frustration, ask him how he could be so sure of anything when he couldn't even remember who he was. But she didn't. There was too much in those eyes of his. Too much surety, too much determination and stubbornness. so much she wanted to consume them, wanted to swallow those qualities so they would be a part of her. Maybe then, she wouldn't be so scared. If only she could stop thinking, just for a minute.

He was close, close enough for her to reach out and grasp the front of his jacket. "Why are you helping me?"

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't pull away from her. "I don't want anything from you, if that's what you mean. I just want to."

"I wish I could help you."

"Help me?"

"Remember. Get back what you lost." When he didn't say anything, she continued. "Would you want to?

He shrugged, so the material of his jacket almost slipped from her fingers. She held on. "It's a missing piece, but you don't know which one. Or if you want it back - if it's worth recovering."

"But you would probably want to know, just for the sake of knowing. Wouldn't you? You would regret it if you didn't."

"How do you know so much?" He was throwing her words back at her. She realized she didn't. She really didn't know much at all. About anything.

"I just want to feel like I can do something," she responded. "And at the same time, I want to forget. I want to move and stand still all at once. I want to run into the forest and search until I find him. And I want to go back to that train and wait and hope that someone will do it for me." She twisted her fingers against his jacket. "It's terrifying, Logan." It was as honest as she could be.

Logan nodded. "Yeah, I know." He looked out at the dense forest that surrounded them. "If you want, I can take you back. Summers can come back with me. Maybe that would be best."

"Is that what you think I should do?"

Sighing, Logan pulled her into a light hug; she was surprised she let him. "I think that you should follow your instincts. I already told you what I think but you're a smart girl and I'm no one to tell you what to do." He pulled back to look her in the eye. "All I can tell you is I'd be glad to have you there with me, helping bring back your father."

Marie realized he was giving her a choice. The decision was entirely her own. "All right," she responded. "My father needs me, and I won't let my fear stop me from trying to help." She heard the tone in her voice and she knew she was trying to convince herself of something she wasn't sure of.

Logan almost smiled. "Good," he said, pointing at the satchel she had been carrying. She passed it to him. "This," he unzipped the bag and pulled out a revolver, "is for you."

She almost took a step back as the metal of the gun gleamed in the sunlight. "I don't know how to use that," she said.

"Simple," Logan replied, placing the weapon in her hand. "You pull this back," he demonstrated, "point, and squeeze. That's only if you really need it, and only if someone gets close enough. I don't want you shooting yourself in the foot." She thought he was somehow enjoying himself - oh, not the situation certainly, but his role in it.

"Where should I keep it?"

He took the revolver and un-cocked it for her. "Put it in your pocket, so you'll be able to get to it quickly."

She held the heavy gun in her hand and sighed. "I hope I won't have to."

Logan nodded. "Just for protection."

"You have another?"

"Yes." Stupid question, Marie.

They stood for a moment in silence, Marie still cradling the gun. "What now?" she finally asked.

Marie watched as Logan reached into the satchel again, this time pulling out a map. "Well, seeing as I have no real trail to follow, I'm going to have to make a guess."

"A guess?"

"A guess. I'm guessing that they didn't just hole up in a cave in the middle of the woods. There has to be some kind of town nearby. So, I'm guessing as to which one." His eyes widened a fraction as he examined the parchment. "Here," he said, pointing at a tiny dot on the landscape. "We're about twenty miles from the next stop, so this should be the nearest town -village probably. Unless Lensherr thought it'd be a good idea to hike all the way back to Vienna, this would be a good place to start."

"This might work then?" Marie's heart leapt at the thought.

"It might," he replied, grinning. "But only if we get moving. Come on, rogue, we want to cover as much ground as possible before sundown."

Logan started trudging through the snow and for a second she just watched as he walked. Then, she followed.

---

"Mr. LeBeau?"

Remy was startled when the soft voice broke through the silence in the cabin. He'd been nearly asleep. He looked up warily from his position near the fireplace. The expectant eyes of Robert Darkholme stared back at him. "Oui?"

"Now that we're alone."

Remy smiled. "You wanted to talk 'bout something?"

There was a slight pause as Darkholme considered his response. "You...I wanted to know what it would take to get you to care about my situation."

"Right. That."

"I have a lot of money, LeBeau," said Darkholme. "More than you could possibly see through this scheme with Eric."

"Possibly." Remy watched as Darkholme fidgeted with his coat. He was nervous, as he should be. The moment was Remy's for the taking. He didn't like Lensherr's plan; Remy was a thief, truly, but he was not a murderer. He had some honor, at least. Now, Robert Darkholme was prepared to give up everything in order to save his own life, and Remy was prepared to take it. "Tell me, monsieur, what have you done to make Lensherr so angry, eh?"

"It's a complicated story."

"So?"

"I really don't have time for this."

"Right now, you got nothing but time."

Darkholme glared at Remy, but there was really nothing he could do. He stood and moved to sit next to the Frenchman. As he warmed his hands by the fire, he said, "I have to be honest now. I'm ready to do anything to get out of here. Eric is going to kill me. I know it. You're my last hope." Remy held out his hand - a sign he wanted another cigarette. Darkholme produced his case and handed it over. "You can keep it," he said.

"I thought I told you one of these isn't going to buy me?" Remy replied.

"What about 50,000 dollars?"

Remy whistled low. "That's a beautiful start, mon ami. It certainly is." He lit his cigarette and inhaled. "What I'm dying to find out, though, is what I'm getting myself into. You're going to tell me what this is all about, or I'm not in for nothing. Got it?"

Darkholme nodded. "I'll need a cigarette..."

"Speak, monsieur. The faster, the better."

"How much do you need to know?"

"All of it."

"All right, then...I suppose I should start from the beginning.

"It all started when I visited Munich with a business partner. Not a business trip itself, but it never hurts to be close to those you're dealing with.

"Anyhow, it ended up being a pleasurable enough experience, especially after I met a beautiful woman at a party. I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't that. She was refined and cultured and I was completely captivated. I hadn't felt that way since my first wife died. And besides, this woman wasn't the sort you had a brief affair with. She respected herself too much for that."

Remy snorted, but Darkholme ignored him and continued.

"I extended the trip; I stayed in Germany after my associate decided to return to the States.

"I became infatuated with the woman, courted her daily and bought her whatever came to mind: jewelry, clothing, everything and anything. I felt like a nervous schoolboy around her. Perhaps because she was so young...

"My affection was not one-sided, I assure you. Though she was a bit timid at first, she slowly began warming to the idea of us being more than casual acquaintances."

Remy looked bored. "I thought you were going to tell me about Lensherr."

"I'm getting to that. After several weeks of what I can only describe as a whirlwind romance, I proposed marriage to my young lady. She was hesitant, understandably; as I said, we'd only known each other some weeks. But, after some tender cajoling, she ceded. We sailed home and became man and wife."

"That doesn't explain Lensherr."

"That's because Lensherr meant nothing to me then. I'd only met him briefly at a dinner party, where he'd been introduced as a successful businessman. What sort of business, I never enquired."

Remy looked about ready to interrupt, but Darkholme stopped him with a raised hand. "This is where my marriage enters into it, sir.

"My son, my pride was abducted some time after I was married. Of course, I assumed it was for money; I had no enemies to speak of. I am a wealthy man, but everything I have was earned fairly."

Remy said nothing, and both men were silent for a long while. They could hear the wind howling outside the small cabin.

"This time is difficult for me to remember. So much seemed to be happening. I was sent a ransom note. The amount asked for was exorbitant. An amount few people would be able to gather; I was not one of them. During this time, I tried to keep a calm demeanor. I had my daughter and wife to think of, after all. But inside, I was grief stricken." Darkholme took a deep breath before continuing. "This was before I knew my son was dead."

"Lensherr?"

"Yes. I came to know that upon receipt of a second note, one that came directly from my son. Or so I thought. In reality, Eric Lensherr had forged his writing, sending me a note from a son long dead. Robert was only sixteen."

"I don't understand."

"He wanted me to know who he was. And he wanted me to know he had killed my only son."

"Why?"

"My wife."

"Your wife?"

"He knew my wife would know exactly what it was about, and that she would tell me."

"And?"

"She did. When I read the note to her, and Lensherr's name was spoken, she went ashen. In all the time I knew her, she'd never looked so frightened. We'd been married two years then and I thought I knew everything about her. In reality, I knew very little. When I asked why she had reacted so badly, she would not answer. All she repeated was the name of the man who has become my torturer. I begged - I forced her to tell me what she knew. In the end, she did.

"What she told me left me cold. She admitted that the man who had kidnapped my son -for I did not yet know he was Robert's murderer - had been her lover. That, in fact, my very relationship with her was the cause of his ire. She had left him under bad circumstances, stolen from him, and married me in order to escape. Robert was Lensherr's revenge.

"And now, he intends to kill me, perhaps in hopes of keeping Raven for himself. I don't know. Why do you look at me that way? You wonder why I stayed with her, after everything? I'm only a man, Monsieur LeBeau. I love my wife beyond what is reasonable. I desire her more than I should."

"I'm not here to judge," replied Remy, lighting another cigarette.

"But are you here to help?"

"Fifty thousand?"

Darkholme nodded, expectant.

"All right. Give me some time. Remy will think of something."

---

Marie Darkholme reached into her coat's pockets, trying to warm her hands from the ever-increasing force of the wind. In one pocket, she could feel the cold metal of the gun Logan had given her, in the other her father's watch.

She reached inside and opened it. They had been trudging through the snow for more than an hour. It was getting colder and colder; her teeth were beginning to chatter. "How much longer?" she asked.

Logan was walking slightly ahead of her, gauging their direction with a compass he periodically produced from his pocket. "Not much actually, but only because we're going to have to stop. It'll be dark soon, and I don't want to be caught in the middle of a storm."

Marie frowned, aware that there was no place within the vicinity in which they could lodge. "Stop where?"

Logan turned and pointed south. "We're going to backtrack. I saw a small cave where we can at least stay dry. I have a couple of blankets in that bag, too."

"Cave?"

"Well, more of a hole in a big rock, really, but it'll do." He started walking again. "Let's go."

After about fifteen minutes, they reached the "cave". Logan was right. It was more an outcrop of a small rock formation. It would provide shelter from the snow and the wind, but not the cold. Logan went to work on building a small fire, and Marie sat back and watched him work. After a while, he was finished and sat beside her.

"Here," he said, handing her a blanket. "It's not much..."

"But it'll do," she interrupted, nodding. "You think of everything."

He nodded and smirked. "I try."

"Logan?"

The sky was darkening and clouds threatened to cover whatever moonlight emerged.

"Yeah?"

"If we find my father..."

"When."

"When. When we find him, what will we do? Lensherr's bound to have men all around him. We're only two people."

"I'll think about it when we get there."

Marie stared at the small flames before her. She watched as they swayed and threatened to be extinguished altogether. She glanced back at Logan. "Aren't you going to cover yourself?"

"It seems I only packed one blanket." He smiled at her. "I'll be fine."

"All right."

Leaning back against the rock, she closed her eyes. She could feel him, sitting next to her, awake and tense.

"We could share..."

She opened her eyes to see Logan staring at her quizzically. "I thought you didn't like being touched?"

"I...don't. But I don't want you freezing because of me."

"I won't. Don't worry."

Marie didn't say anything more. She sat back and closed her eyes, realizing for the first time how very tired she was. If Logan didn't want to share her blanket, she couldn't force him. Within minutes, she had drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Some time later, she awoke with a start, surrounded by complete darkness. Logan was still sitting upright beside her. He was smoking a cigar.

"Are you cold?" she whispered.

He turned to look at her and she thought she caught surprise on his darkened features. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was." She scooted up next to him and held one side of her blanket to him. "Come on, I won't rest easy knowing you're cold."

For a brief moment, he looked at her without moving. Then, he wordlessly shifted his body, discarding his cigar and wrapping himself within her blanket, pulling closely to her comparative warmth.

She felt him place a tentative arm around her. "Can I?" she heard him ask.

"Yes," she said softly, already feeling the effects of him next to her, their bodies creating heat. "You must be very tired."

"It's not so bad."

There was a long period of silence during which she could almost feel his heart beating. Her being hummed with exhaustion - and something else. "I never explained why I don't like being touched."

"You don't have to," he murmured.

"It's nothing, really. And, it's not that I don't like being touched as much as it makes me feel uncomfortable."

"Sorry." Logan began pulling away.

"No! No, not you. It's all right. Just," she paused, "David, the boy from Mississippi..."

"The idiot?"

She smiled. "He used to touch me a lot, you know? Holding my hand, hugging, a caress, a kiss... it was how he showed his affection. When I realized how false that was, his affection, I just didn't care for touch. It's like people have power over you if they can touch you. It's the best way I know to explain it."

"I'm sorry he hurt you that way," she felt him whisper against her hair.

"Logan?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't remember loving anyone?"

"No."

"How about hurting someone?"

"I would never hurt someone that wasn't after hurting me."

"Have you killed anyone?"

"Not that I remember, but I was a soldier - and lived to tell about it - so I imagine I did my share."

"That must be terrible," Marie offered through a yawn.

"I expect so."

Her eyelids drooping, Marie felt herself leaning into Logan's shoulder. "I wonder," she mused, "what it would have been like to meet under different circumstances."

"We probably wouldn't have."

"Why not?"

"I'm not the sort of guy you usually socialize with, rogue."

"If I'm a rogue," she countered sleepily, "then I would definitely socialize with you."

"How would we have met? At a ritzy dinner party?"

"In a Canadian bar."

"Now you've gone daft."

She continued, unfazed by his comment. "And we would have looked at each other and just known."

"Known what?" His voice vibrated through her.

"That we were meant to meet."

"Marie?"

"Yes, Logan?"

She felt him move so that his face was before hers and before she knew it, he had pressed his lips to hers. The moment was brief, but after it was over she swore she could still feel his beard prickling her cheek. He leaned back to his previous position and said, "Get some sleep, rogue. I will, too. We'll need it."

The snow was an inch deep when she awoke to find the sun threatening to emerge through the veil of night. She was sore and cold – she could hardly feel her feet – but she was warmed by the thought of Logan lying next to her. He was, surprisingly, still asleep.

She shook him awake and he jumped, startled out of dreams too quickly. He blinked a few times, setting his eyes on her, recognition building slowly. As though in a haze, he stood groggily and began gathering their things – really just the one blanket and the map – stuffing them haphazardly into his small satchel.

"Good morning," Marie said.

Logan didn't say anything. His eyes were on the forest. He didn't seem to be looking at any one thing, just staring out into the purplish glow of early morning. Instead of turning toward her, he shook snow off his coat and started walking.

It dawned on Marie that he was not going to wait for her. She stood and was shocked by how badly her legs responded. Taking a few awkward steps, she followed him; she was still unaware of just what had happened during the few short hours they had rested to change his mood so drastically.

"Hey," she called out, as his figure became smaller and smaller in front of her. "What are you doing?"

This time, he responded. "Hurry up."

More sure of her legs, Marie ran to catch up. It was a struggle just to keep up with him. "What's happening?" she asked breathlessly.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

He glanced at her, and quickly set his gaze forward. "I just don't want to slow for anything, all right?"

"I'm sorry," she replied, not a little sarcastically. "My legs aren't quite as long as yours." She *was * sorry, if only because they'd gotten off on the wrong foot so early in the day. She still couldn't figure out what had happened, what she had done to make him so angry – though she had an idea.

He had the courtesy to seem slightly apologetic when he answered, "Well, I'll try to slow down."

Marie noticed he still wasn't looking at her. "Thanks," she mumbled. Then added, "You know, I don't think anything of it."

He looked at her. "What?"

The expression on his face made Marie think maybe she shouldn't have broached the subject. "About what… happened. I don't think anything's changed." And she didn't. But maybe it had been a mistake to bring it up at all. After all, she had no experience in those matters. It was probably bad manners to talk about something of that nature. Especially when it was meaningless, as their encounter was. "Nevermind," she added.

His face softened slightly and he took her arm. "The faster we go," he explained. "The faster we get there. And the sooner you have your father back."

She nodded. "The sooner you're rid of me."

Logan's fingers tightened on her arm, but he remained quiet. For a while, all they did was walk, hurriedly making their way through the forest. Marie felt dizzy and out of breathe. She'd just awoken, but she felt as though she'd been up for days. With each step – each leg lifted up and over mounds of snow – she felt her resolve weaken. What if she was a burden? What if she couldn't help save her father? "I'm so tired."

The grip on her arm was firm. Logan was helping her, nearly dragging her now, through the woods and the slush on the ground. For a long time, all Marie did was concentrate on her feet, every step a struggle. As the day progressed, her thoughts wandered from the Austrian forest. She thought of a winter she spent with her father in New York. It was one of the first outings out of Mississippi she could remember. Her brother was alive then. Raven wasn't in their lives. The snow was falling so quickly, it had no time to turn dark on the ground. It fell and fell, and was white and bright, and beautiful. She didn't remember the cold. It was impossible to recall the numbing of her fingers and feet, and nose. All she knew was that she was happy then. Her father was so strong when she was a child; he could probably carry the world on his shoulders. He had to carry her, when she was tired of running through the park – when she needed his warmth and comfort. She thought about her father, and the thought carried her now.

---

Remy was out of cigarettes and in a foul mood.

Robert Darkholme had given his word that fifty thousand dollars were his for the taking - if only he could save him from Eric Lensherr. Remy had accepted, only a bit reluctantly, just to find himself in the difficult position of actually getting Darkholme out of that run-down shack, and back onto the Orient Express. Easier said than done, considering Eric's men were all around. Eric himself was nowhere to be seen, but Remy was sure he was nearby. He would never leave so valuable a commodity as Darkholme alone and unattended. But, then again, that was what Remy was for.

Still without an idea of just what he was going to do, Remy went back into the cabin. Darkholme was asleep, huddled underneath a small blanket. The fire had gone out and the cold was nearly unbearable. Remy picked up a few logs and went to work.

"Have you figured something out?" he heard.

"Awake, monsieur? You looked like you were dead."

"I may as well be if you haven't thought of something."

Remy's smile was all teeth. "You let Remy worry about that."

"You said that last night."

"And I say it again today," replied Remy, impatient with Darkholme's badgering.

Darkholme quieted, perhaps afraid to alienate the man who would be his savior. It was a long while before he spoke again, saying, "I wonder if anyone is looking for me."

Remy chortled. "Non. No one cares, mon ami."

"My daughter cares."

"So? What can your daughter do?"

The words silenced Darkholme once more.

Soon, Remy had a raging fire built. He leaned back and warmed his hands. He was still itching for a cigarette. "Maybe by nightfall," he said. "When most of the men are asleep. That would be the best time."

"Nightfall? But, that would mean waiting another - "

"Yes," Remy interrupted. "We wait. No choice now. If you want to brave all of Lensherr's men you do it alone. Fifty thousand ain't worth nothing to a dead man, oui?"

Darkholme sat up, clearly nervous. "But, the train… how do we know it will still be there? They must be nearly done clearing the snow?"

"Possible that's true. In that case we hike to the next town."

"And where is that, exactly?"

"Exactly, I don't know. Lensherr has the map."

"Is there anything you do know?"

Remy snapped. "*Merde!* Do you think I have to do this? Do you think I must help you? You're nothing to me!" He held up a log and threatened to hit Darkholme with it, swinging once, hard, for effect.

Darkholme fell back onto his haunches, holding one arm up for protection until he realized no blow would fall. He looked up at Remy expectantly, frightened.

Sighing, Remy threw down the log and ran a hand through his wild hair. "We wait," he said, storming out of the cabin, in the bright cold morning. Robert Darkholme closed his eyes. He had no choice; he waited.

The snow was quickly melting beneath Marie's feet by the time they reached the encampment. The sun burned brightly and her father's pocket watch told her it was past ten in the morning. The melting snow signaled that the train would be free soon (if it wasn't already) and on its way to its next stop.

Logan walked two paces ahead of her at all times, and for the few hours they'd been walking had said little. She'd recovered her footing some minutes after they'd left their shelter, and had refused his assistance since. If he was going to be silent and obstinate, she had no choice but to counter with a similar response. She was grateful that he was there to help, but she hated being reminded of her foolishness in kissing him the night before.

The forest was clearing when Logan stopped her by putting his hand up. He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the ground, where the clear outline of footprints could be made out; further out, there were also tire tracks heading west. It took another twenty minutes for them to carefully make their way to the edge of the encampment, which wasn't an encampment at all, but a tiny village set firmly in the middle of that Austrian forest. From their vantage point, they could see a good twenty houses, which all conformed to the same basic architecture and were facing a town center. The houses looked ramshackle and forgotten. There were a few people walking around, but they all looked like they had a purpose, and they were all men.

"Well?" she whispered.

He didn't look at her when he responded; he had his gaze firmly set on the men below. "Looks like we found what we were looking for."

"What do we do now?"

Logan's eyes finally settled on hers. They were the color of honey, but the edges were steely hard; she had the idea that no amount of forgetting his past could remove whatever horrors he'd experienced. They remained there, etched in his eyes. "I'm going to look around."

It was clear by the way he'd said it that he meant to go alone, but she had to ask. "What about me?"

"You're staying here until I say otherwise."

"But-"

"Stay," he said firmly, and she didn't like tone in his voice. It told her what she hadn't stopped to think about during their short time together: Logan was dangerous.

Still, she worried, and this stranger, this man without a past, had been kinder to her than anyone in a long time. "Be careful," she said, and thought she saw him smile slightly as he ducked out behind their hiding place, taking some unseen journey through the forest and into the mouth of danger.

---

Charles Xavier heard a knock at his door and, thinking perhaps that it was Scott or Jean who had come with news, answered, "Come in."

The compartment door slid open to reveal neither Scott nor Jean. Charles Xavier was rarely surprised, but the appearance of the man before him was certainly a surprise. "Eric."

The man tipped his hat and smiled. "Charles." Eric Lensherr did not ask for permission before he entered the cabin and slid the door shut behind him. He brushed snow off his woolen coat, removed his hat, and sat on the bench opposite Charles, still smiling almost broadly. "I'm glad to see you, old friend." He looked briefly around the small compartment. "And you're alone."

Charles Xavier did not wish to pretend for nicety's sake. There was no reason to interpret Eric's visit as anything other than hostile. "Of course you knew that, Eric," he replied, placidly. "Why have you come?"

"Why, Charles, that tone. I've come because I'd heard you were here, and why not stop and chat with a friend. It has been so very long."

"There's no need for pretense. Tell me about Mr. Darkholme."

Eric feigned confusion. "Darkholme? Now, why does that name sound so incredibly familiar?"

"Eric…"

"Tut, tut, Charles. Is that any tone to take with me, your oldest and dearest friend?" Eric straightened in his seat and shook his head. "Perhaps I am being rather difficult. Mr. Darkholme is alive, I presume."

"You presume."

"Well, it has been some time since I last saw him. One can never tell what cold, and hunger, and fear, can do to a man."

Charles expression remained neutral. "You know all too well, Eric."

Eric shrugged. "Past is prologue, as they say."

"What do you want for him?"

"Nothing you can give, Charles. Perhaps there was, at on time, something I would have had from you. But no longer."

"Why are you doing this?"

Sighing, Eric replied, "I ask myself that question often, Charles, and my most frequent response to myself is that I am a selfish man at heart – oh, don't protest, I think you'll know it to be true. I am a selfish man, Charles, and have infinitely too many resources at hand, much as you do. Of course, while you are a man of wisdom, a man of justice, I am but a criminal and a braggart and a bully, and if things do not go my way, why Charles, I'm likely to strike back with vengeance. And now ask yourself, friend, do you really want to know why I do what I do?"

Before Xavier could think to respond, the compartment door opened to reveal Scott. He did not look surprised by Eric's presence. "I'd like to know," he said tersely.

"Now, young man," Eric said, slyly producing a gun from beneath his coat, "I will not shoot unless forced. The commotion, you see." He motioned Scott to sit down. "This was a private conversation, and it was incredibly rude of you to walk in the way you did." The revolver was kept pointed in Scott's direction as Eric addressed Charles once more. "Now, Herr Xavier, as we've clearly established there is nothing you can do for me, perhaps I should explain the reason behind my visit?"