text: It had been almost ten years since logan walked these streets, and like most old neighborhoods, nothing much had changed. The houses still had their irregular steep-pitched roofs with patterned shingles, the lawns were still immaculate, and the view of Elliot Bay and Lake Union still managed to take his breath away. Or maybe that was just his body. Patty, whoever she was, had terrible endurance, and these hills were the steepest in the city.
  
  "I don't like leaving them," Scott said. His breathing seemed far more regular; Logan envied him for that.
  
  "They'll be fine," Logan said, still trying to grow accustomed to the high squeaky tones of his voice. "You seem to forget that you're dealing with X-Men here."
  
  "Powerless X-Men."
  
  "Gimme a break, Cyke. You think Jean's telepathy or Kurt's teleporting are all that makes them strong?"
  
  "Of course not, but it does give them an advantage."
  
  Logan shrugged. He couldn't argue with that. Then again, there was no use crying over things that might never be changed. You just picked up the pieces and kept moving. Did the best with what you had.
  
  And what he had was the flabby misused body of a twenty-something woman who looked far too cute for his taste, and who was pierced in several areas that should never know the touch of hard steel. Two of them were rubbing against his shirt.
  
  Kid really was crazy. It had taken a legion of scientists to stick metal in Logan's body. He didn't understand anyone who would do it voluntarily.
  
  They passed only one other person during their walk, a bespectacled older man with a golden retriever, who smiled at them both, but made eyes only at Scott. Logan did not mind in the slightest. Scott give him a hard look and said, "Don't even think about it." "What?"
  
  "You know very well what."
  
  "Aw, hell. You need to get in touch with your feminine side, Scott. Ain't no time like the present."
  
  Scott grunted. "Doesn't it bother you at all that you're a woman?"
  
  "Would bother me more if I was still in my own body and missing certain... parts."
  
  Which had been his first thought upon awakening in the hospital. A bad place to go, if you were a man. Very bad. Discovering his young perky breasts, seeing that unfamiliar face reflected in the glass of his window, had made him feel immensely better because this was clearly not his body. And if this was not his body, then somewhere out there he—Logan, Wolverine—was still a whole, healthy man.
  
  "Okay," Scott said. "I see your point."
  
  Logan grunted. "We're getting close."
  
  "Thank God. My thighs are killing me."
  
  "Don't complain too much. You want to stay toned, you know. Keep those legs smokin'."
  
  "Logan—"
  
  "Why do you think Jean gets on that StairMaster every day?"
  
  Scott sighed. "You are totally out of control."
  
  "You say that so much it's practically habit. Gotta find a new line, Scooter."
  
  "Right. Is it possible that becoming a woman has made you even more obnoxious?"
  
  "That's just you. Must be PMS."
  
  "Bad joke," Scott said, but Logan did not give him a chance to say more. He stopped walking, gazing from the numbers on a gray mailbox to the house behind it, perched like a fine diamond, one of many, in the crown of Old Victoria Hill.
  
  Jonas Maguire's house was a large white Victorian set off the street and surrounded by trees. Perfect cover. Logan and Scott walked up the front sidewalk like they owned the place, which in his experience, was the best way to act when you were trying to set up a con. A little confidence went a long way, especially in the city, where no one paid much attention to the private lives of their neighbors, and odd comings and goings at night could be ascribed to some quirk of behavior, rather than any criminal wrongdoing.
  
  "He must have a security system," Scott whispered, as they stepped on the wide front porch. Hanging pots bobbed with the outlines of geraniums and ferns. Rocking chairs sat at the very end of the porch, and over the antique mail slot was a wooden carving of a fat cow. It was all very innocuous and country.
  
  "Yeah, this one's a real mad scientist," Logan said. "Wonder if he knits."
  
  Scott peered around the edge of the porch. "The garage is detached, so no go through there. Do you think he has a house sitter?"
  
  "I could knock and find out."
  
  Scott actually seemed to think about that. "We could always say our car broke down."
  
  "Forget it. I was joking. You do that and someone will be on the phone to the cops. We won't have time to do anything." Logan examined the lock. It was simple; looked like the original, even. "I need something to pick this with. Do you still have that wire?"
  
  Silent, face devoid of expression, Scott reached into his pants. Logan stared. He began to ask, but Scott shook his head. Yeah, he was probably better off not knowing— but it still wasn't easy touching that wire.
  
  While Scott watched the street, Logan bent over to work. It was difficult to see—he missed being a mutant— but he slipped the wire in the lock and jimmied it around until he heard a very satisfying click.
  
  "Security," Scott reminded him again.
  
  "I know," Logan said, but without more time or the tools to do a proper examination of the property, they were going to have to wing it anyway. Alarms or not, that door was coming open.
  
  And when it did, when Logan pushed his way into the house, he heard not a sound. He looked around for a security panel, some blinking red light that would give it away, but there was nothing.
  
  "This Maguire is a real trusting guy," Logan said, stepping sideways so that Scott could enter.
  
  "Maybe he has a reason to be."
  
  "If he's a mutant, you mean."
  
  "The evidence suggests that he is."
  
  "But why us?" Logan sniffed the air; a reflex. He felt only slightly foolish. The house had no discernable odor; perhaps, only, a hint of some flower, perhaps a rose. He listened, and though he heard nothing, wondered if that was only his own weakness, whether there was something he was missing, something escaping his notice, all because he was human now, and weak.
  
  Not weak. Not for one minute, don't you tell yourself that.
  
  Because he was only as weak as his spirit, and he refused to let this—his new body, these circumstances— break him.
  
  "I think this is his office," Scott said, peering into a room off the main entry. The woodwork was old, classic, with fine carved flowers in the dark trim and shining hardwood floors that smelled like lemon. A large desk faced the sole window. Its surface was clean except for a computer, a thin sheaf of paper, and one framed picture of a dark-haired woman with a lovely smile and amazing cheekbones.
  
  "Wife?" Logan asked.
  
  "Could be," Scott said. He glanced around the room. "Check upstairs. I can handle this."
  
  "Yes, ma'am." Logan flashed him a grin and ducked out of the office. He examined the kitchen first, a quick walk through, and then headed up the stairs on light feet, listening for any movement, any sign they were not alone. Everything was quiet. No life here. Nothing except for them.
  
  All the doors stood open. Logan perused the rooms, taking in the complete lack of furniture or personal items. No paintings, no soft chairs; Maguire had a bed, but it was only a twin, covered in a threadbare quilt. One pillow. One closet half-full of dress shirts and suit jackets. One dresser, with only one drawer filled with underwear.
  
  And one drawer for a teddy bear. Very soft, very worn, and missing both its eyes. It had been placed carefully inside the dresser, sitting in the center with its little mournful face turned up. Logan picked up the bear, holding it gingerly in his hands. He sniffed its fur. It smelled clean, like detergent.
  
  He heard footsteps in the hall. Scott entered the room, stopping when he saw what Logan held.
  
  "Does this mean anything to you?" Logan held up the bear.
  
  "It's the only personal item I've seen in the house, other than the photograph downstairs."
  
  "Which means it's important, because this guy doesn't have crap. Looks like he moved into this house with a suitcase and set up shop."
  
  "A temporary living space? Something that gives the appearance of permanence?" Scott pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. "I found this on his desk."
  
  Logan took the paper. "An e-ticket receipt for a flight to New York. The good doctor left last night. That's convenient."
  
  "Very. I'd say the evidence against Maguire is getting stronger."
  
  "I'd say you're right. I'd also say that our bodies went with him, but probably in our jet."
  
  "That requires specialized knowledge to fly, Logan."
  
  "Cyke, if the man really did do a mind switch on us, then he's probably strong enough to pull some information out of our heads while he's at it." Logan hesitated, staring at the teddy bear. "Here's what I don't get. This is a man who has no life. Or rather, the life he does have has been built around a specific purpose. My guess? To screw us. I wanna know why."
  
  "You're assuming a lot. We don't really know him. His goals might not be to hurt us, but to use us."
  
  "Don't get technical on me, bub. Your wife is a man and the both of us have boobs. I'm not feeling the love."
  
  Scott rolled his eyes. "Fine, I agree that his intentions aren't exactly noble. In fact, I'll even go so far as to say he has it in for us—"
  
  "—thank you—"
  
  "—but that doesn't answer your question. Why?"
  
  Logan gazed around the room. The teddy bear felt soft and warm in his hand; he was reluctant to put it down. "Did you find out who the woman in the photo is?"
  
  "No," Scott said, "but she must have been special."
  
  "Yeah. This isn't a man who owns a lot. Which makes me wonder why he would leave without the picture and the bear. They're easy to pack and they obviously mean something to him."
  
  "He's traveling light."
  
  "Not good enough."
  
  "Because he thinks he's coming back?"
  
  "Or because he knows he's not."
  
  "As in what? He thinks he's going to die? He plans on committing suicide?"
  
  "Maybe. It doesn't seem like he has much of a life, anyway."
  
  Scott shook his head. "If I was going to kill myself, I would want my most precious mementos nearby."
  
  "As a reminder of your misery?" Logan waved the teddy bear in Scott's face. "Does this really say why, God, why'?"
  
  "Maybe to Maguire."
  
  "Or maybe he's left the trappings of his life behind, so he can be free to do what needs to be done. He's going out as a man of resolve."
  
  "That still doesn't explain why."
  
  "I don't think we're gonna get that why' until we catch up with him, meaning we need to find some way of getting back to New York before he finishes what he started. Whatever that is."
  
  "Infiltrating the X-Men?"
  
  "As a start. He has something bigger in mind, that's for sure." Logan shook the teddy bear. Quiet, almost to himself, he murmured, "What the hell is going on here?"
  
  "That's what we're going to find out." Scott folded up the receipt and stuck it back in his pocket. "Come on, Logan. Let's get out of here."
  
  Two things happened before they left Jonas Maguire's house.
  
  The first was that Scott made a phone call. It was almost 8:30 in the morning on the East Coast. Plenty of time for everyone to be up and about and ready to answer phones.
  
  The school had a 1-800 number for the students in case they ever needed to reach someone at the Mansion and did not have enough money for a pay phone. Just another safety precaution—Jean's idea, even—and Scott had never been happier for it.
  
  He tried Storm's extension first, but that proved to be a dead end. Scott was not sure who else was at the Mansion. The day before he and his team left for Seattle, Bobby and Sam had dragged Piotr off to the woods for a camping trip. Gambit and Jubilee were supposed to be around, but they did not pick up their phones, either.
  
  Scott gave up and called the main line. It rang five times before someone answered. The voice belonged to a girl, young and breathless; one of the students, though Scott did not recognize her.
  
  "Hello?" she said. "Um, Xavier's School for the-"
  
  "Is Ororo there?" Scott interrupted. "Storm?"
  
  "Uh, sorry. She went out early to go shopping. Can I take a message?" Polite, distant, the perfect voice for dealing with strange adults. But I am not a stranger, Scott wanted to say. You know me. I probably taught you geometry last week. Brat!
  
  Scott grit his teeth. "What about any of the other senior teachers? Gambit? Is Sam or Bobby back?"
  
  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but they're all gone for the day. It's the weekend, you know. If you give me your name...?"
  
  He almost said "Scott," but stopped himself just in time. Without seeing him face-to-face, listening to everything he and the others had to say, it would be difficult to convince Storm or any of their friends that they were the real X-Men. They all knew secrets about each other that could not be faked, but just finding the chance to get them to listen was going to be an ordeal.
  
  "My name is Mindy," he said carefully. "I'm a very close friend of Scott Summers and Jean Grey, and I have some important information about them for Ororo. Very important."
  
  For a moment there was only silence on the other end of the line. Scott said, "Hello?" and the girl made a small sound.
  
  Quiet, tentative, she said, "Are they okay? They've been gone for a couple days."
  
  Scott hesitated. There must have been something in his voice, or maybe the girl was just that perceptive.
  
  "No, they're not okay," he finally said, striving to be calm, to not shout into the phone. "You need to get that message to Ororo as soon as possible. Understand?"
  
  "Yes, ma'am," said the girl, and Scott felt a great deal of pride at the change in her voice, the seriousness of her commitment. Good kids, all of them. Maybe the X-Men weren't doing such a bad job of teaching the next generation.
  
  "Do you have a number where she can reach you?'" asked the girl.
  
  "No," Scott said. "Just tell her I'll call back again in a couple of hours."
  
  "Okay," she said, and that was it. The girl hung up.
  
  Scott felt a brief pang in his heart when the connection died. In this body, with his identity stolen, he was nothing but an outsider looking in, some distant unknowable human—a wannabe, a stranger—and it hurt It hurt that the student had not recognized him, that she would never believe him if he told her the truth.
  
  Crazy. She would think you're crazy. Even your friends are going to think you're crazy, unless you can convince them of the truth.
  
  It would be easier if Xavier was around, but he and Hank were in Geneva for the next two weeks, attending a mutant-rights symposium. Mutants representing mutants, in an effort to stem the tide of world legislation aimed at curbing the use of their powers. Scott did not know how to reach him, and even if he did, calling Geneva collect from a pay phone and actually getting through was highly unlikely. Xavier was keeping the company of world leaders; getting someone to fetch him for a call on some unrecognized line might be as difficult as getting his body back.
  
  Logan entered the study. He carried a plastic shopping bag.
  
  "What have you got in there?" Scott asked, frowning.
  
  "Maguire still had some food in his refrigerator. I also took some of his clothes and underwear. Couldn't find any money, though."
  
  "We need to figure out how to get some," Scott said, rubbing his face. "Okay, let's—"
  
  Logan held up his hand; a sharp gesture, one that made Scott shut his mouth and listen. Logan closed his eyes.
  
  Scott heard it, then. Sirens.
  
  "Are they coming here?" he whispered, already moving out of the office. "Did we trip something on our way in?"
  
  "Maybe someone saw us."
  
  "We've been here almost twenty minutes. The cops would have gotten here sooner if we were seen breaking and entering." Or if they had triggered an alarm.
  
  "Whatever," Logan said. "Let's move it."
  
  They left through the kitchen, which had a back door that opened into a tiny garden filled with roses. The grass had not been mowed in quite some time, a sharp contrast to the front yard. Scott stepped on something squishy. There was enough light in the sky for him to see the remains of a fat slug beneath his shoe. Scott blinked hard; he still had trouble adjusting to the sudden influx of so many different kinds of color.
  
  The sirens sounded closer; Scott and Logan pushed through a gap in the neighbor's bushes and used the cover of chaotically manicured trees and tall decorative grasses to partially hide their movements as they raced from one yard to the next, until half a block down from Maguire's home they made their way to the sidewalk and peered out at the road.
  
  They watched the nearby intersection; two police cruisers sped past Highland Avenue down the hill toward lower Old Victoria. Scott sighed, rubbing his chest. He forgot he had breasts and got a handful before he remembered. Logan smirked at him.
  
  "Shut up," Scott said, even though Logan hadn't said anything. They left Highland, still listening to the sirens. There were more cars on the road, but none slowed as they passed Logan and Scott. They were just two women out for an early-morning stroll.
  
  "Those cop cars seem to be stationary now," Logan said, just as the sirens went dead. He looked at Scott, and there was no mistaking the question in his eyes.
  
  Scott forgot subtlety. He ran down the hill.
  
  At the first sight of flickering red and blue, Logan grabbed Scott's arm and made him slow to a walk. His heart pounded so loud he could barely hear the voices over the radio, the click of car engines cooling. He heard women talk, and thought of Jean when he heard that voice. He had to remind himself that she was a man now, and that the person talking had to be Rogue. Rogue, or some other woman.
  
  "What happened?" Logan murmured, as they crossed into view of the U-Park. Scott forgot to breathe. There was an ambulance and a body on the ground beside their van. Scott could not see the face—too many people surrounded it—but the van doors, back and front, were open and he did not see anyone inside.
  
  "They're gone," Logan said, and then: "Heads up, Cyke."
  
  Scott tore his gaze away from the long legs stretched on the ground—what was jean wearing, oh God, what was she wearing, why can't I remember— and looked up into the blue eyes of a narrow man in a black uniform.
  
  "Ma'am," he said, nodding at Scott, and then Logan. "I don't suppose either one of you saw what happened here?"
  
  "No," Logan said, and his voice was particularly soft, and very much that of a girl. Scott did not think he was that good of an actor, but considering what he had to work with, it probably should not have been such a surprise.
  
  "You should move on, then. This really isn't pleasant to look at."
  
  "What happened?" Scott asked, and then as an afterthought, "This is such a safe neighborhood."
  
  The officer shrugged. "Like I said, this isn't something you want to be around, ladies."
  
  "You're right," Logan said, grabbing Scott's arm. "Thanks."
  
  He steered them away from the crime scene, and when they turned the corner and were out of earshot, hissed, "What were you trying to do, start up a conversation? Don't forget where we escaped from. They probably already have our pictures circulating."
  
  "I wanted to know what happened."
  
  "What happened is that someone got dead. All that matters is that it wasn't one of us."
  
  Scott stopped walking. "Are you sure about that?"
  
  "Jesus, Cyke. Don't you know what your friends look like?" Logan ignored Scott's answering scowl and said, "The dead guy had gray slacks on. All of us are wearing jeans or sweats."
  
  Scott's hand hurt He looked down and found his nails digging into his palm. He tried to relax and foiled miserably. "Where do you think they are?"
  
  "Must be close." Up one street were more residences, but here in this part of the neighborhood Scott saw only small shops and restaurants, most of which were still closed. It was a very upper-middle-class atmosphere, with not too many places for people to hide.
  
  There was, however, a small green space down one block and across the street. Too small to be an actual park, but with enough flowers and greenery to be a pleasant place to sit and talk. Scott saw movement, someone tall and dark.
  
  "Over there," he said, and led Logan across the street. He glanced behind. Shrubbery hid the police cars from sight, though Scott still feared being watched. No one followed them as they walked to the small public garden, and as they neared, Scott once again saw the tall figure of a man, hair large and wild with dreadlocks.
  
  "Scott," Jean said, "we were worried about you."
  
  "Worried about us?" He reached out and grabbed her hands, drawing her close. It was awkward, having to look up into her face, but he drowned his discomfort in the relief of finding her safe and alive.
  
  He found Rogue and Kurt sitting on a bench. Near them were two other people: a heavily wrinkled man with silver hair, and another man, much younger, with bright blue eyes and a wry, twisting, mouth.
  
  "These are the chicks he called whores?" said the young man, looking at Scott and Logan. "Dude. What an idiot."
  
  "Sounds like we missed a lot," Logan said to Kurt.
  
  "Ja. A barrel full of fun."
  
  "A smokin' barrel," Rogue added. "Some high-class pimp came up to the car and accused Je—er, Jeff—of sending you two out as hookers."
  
  "In this neighborhood?" Logan frowned. "He must have been high."
  
  "Nah," said the old man, running brown fingers through his hair. "Over here the girls don't walk the streets. They got cell phones now. Schedules they have to keep. Billy, he used to drop 'em off around here and then they'd go walk to their appointments. Didn't look like hookers, either. Sweet girls. Kind of like you two."
  
  "But with way more flash," added his companion. "Nobody around here would hire you."
  
  "Thanks," Logan said. "But who the hell are you?"
  
  "This is Luke, and the older gentleman is his partner, Ed." Jean gave them both a small smile. "I think they may have saved our lives."
  
  "Jeff is giving us way too much credit." Ed put his hands behind his back and stretched. His clothes were dark and raggedy, and his thick backpack overflowed with odd bits and pieces of material and plastic. There was an emptiness to his eyes that bothered Scott, but his smile seemed genuine enough. "All we did was provide a distraction."
  
  "Yeah, we saw that gun and Ed here came out of the bushes where we were sitting and he was like, 'Hey, dude,' and then Jeff opens the door and steps out and these other two come out of the car, and Billy is all like, 'Stay back, assholes,' and then Jane and Renny do some weird shit and Jeff disarms him with some Jackie Chan move and a kung-fu kick to the nads. Dude fights dirty."
  
  "I bet," Logan said, giving Jean an odd look. "That man back there. He looks dead."
  
  Jean raised her eyebrows. "I didn't shoot him. I did, however, hit him over the head when he was down on the ground."
  
  "Do you still have the gun?" Scott asked. Jean lifted up the edge of her shirt and revealed a .44 sticking out of her pants.
  
  "That's a good way to castrate yourself," Logan said. "Safety's on, right?"
  
  "Of course," Jean said.
  
  Scott turned to Luke and Ed. "Thanks for your help. We can't offer much in return, though."
  
  Ed shook his head. "Wouldn't ask for nothing, anyhow. I'm sure you folks would do the same."
  
  Scott nodded. The X-Men would do the same, though in the past their interventions had involved only mutants. Violence between humans was something they did not often get involved in, if only because the mutant issues always seemed more pressing. More... timely.
  
  Of course, when one considered that mutants were still a minority, and that most reported day-to-day violence was between regular nonpowered humans, Scott wondered what else they could be using their gifts for. Was it enough just to help mutants?
  
  You don't just help mutants, he reminded himself. True enough, but it seemed like that was all he ever thought about Other heroes, like the Fantastic Four and Spider-Man, certainly did not "specialize." Or at least, they did not seem to.
  
  "We have to get out of town," Logan said. "Heading east to New York. You guys know if Balmer Yard is still the best jumping station out of Seattle?"
  
  Ed grinned. "You another train mnner? Never met a girl so young who rode the rails. It's a dying art."
  
  "Yeah," Logan said. "But it ain't dead yet."
  
  The old man laughed. "Baylor's still good. Watch out for the bulls, though. They're getting more careful about surveying the empty cars."
  
  "Bulls?" Scott murmured.
  
  "Security guards," Logan said. "Old hobo lingo."
  
  They waved goodbye to Luke and Ed, both of whom wanted to sit a while longer in the garden, or maybe—as they said—scrounge up some breakfast from one oi the local cafe owners. It was tempting to stay with them and try to do the same, but the cops were still down the street and it was a miracle that none of them had come over yet to ask any questions.
  
  "Actually, they did," Rogue said, when Scott voiced his concerns.
  
  "You must have told some kind of story," Logan said. "I'm surprised they didn't take you guys in just on principle."
  
  "You are such a pessimist," Kurt said, limping beside him.
  
  "Yes," Logan agreed. "But I'm usually right, too. What gives?"
  
  "We talked real pretty," Rogue said, giving him a sly smile.
  
  Kurt placed a hand over his heart. "I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire! The day is hot, the Capulets abroad—"
  
  "And if we meet," Jean interrupted in a deep baritone, "we shall not scape a brawl, for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." She smiled. "I think I like saying those lines in a man's voice. It adds dramatic heft."
  
  "You quoted Shakespeare at the police?" Logan asked disbelievingly.
  
  "No," Rogue said, "but we started spouting it as soon as we saw them coming. Acted like we were some poor actors out for an impromptu morning rehearsal. You should have seen the looks on their faces."
  
  "Right," Scott said slowly, "because what kind of criminals spout the great Bard?"
  
  Jean shrugged, still smiling. "People see what they want. We gave them something different from the outset, and so they were less inclined to believe we were capable of violence. Illusion, sweetheart. Dreams and illusion."
  
  Rogue stumbled. Kurt touched her arm and said something low that made her smile—a smile that did not reach her eyes.
  
  "We're all tired and hungry," Jean said quietly, watching Rogue.
  
  "Logan found some food in Maguire's house."
  
  "Temporary measure," Logan said. "We need money. We also need to get to New York as fast as possible."
  
  "Which is why you asked about the train station?"
  
  "Ain't no station, darlin'. It's the tracks."
  
  "I'm not comforted. There must be a better way."
  
  "Jeannie—" Logan began, but Scott held up his hands.
  
  "Unless you want to keep stealing cars—which I suppose is an option—and unless we can find enough money for bus or plane tickets, I think this is our best choice."
  
  "Have you tried the school?"
  
  "Everyone we needed was gone. Shopping."
  
  Jean blew out her breath. "If we wait here—"
  
  "Personally," Kurt called back, "I would prefer not to wait. At least let us be moving somewhere. The longer we are in this city, the greater our chances of being... collected... by the mental hospital. Surely we can find pay phones along the way. We will have other chances to contact our friends."
  
  Rogue stopped walking and turned around to look at them. "You haven't told us what you found at the doctor's house."
  
  "Someone who is seriously lonely," Logan said. He reached into the shopping bag and pulled out the teddy bear. Scott tried not to show his surprise. "This and a photo were the only personal items we found in his house."
  
  "As well as a plane receipt for a flight to New York," Scott added. "He left last night."
  
  Rogue nodded, her mouth settling into a hard white line. She looked especially dangerous in her new body, which Scott found curious. Despite the impression she usually gave—which was that of a soft-spoken Southern beauty—Rogue was one of the most formidable mutants in the world, and Scott had always judged her as such because of her powers. As a normal human, though, he was beginning to realize that she was just as intimidating.
  
  That was good. He hoped all of them proved to be so strong. Because if they had to confront themselves—their bodies, their powers—and it came down to a fight, they were going to need every ounce of hard resolve to simply stay alive.
  
  And even that would require a miracle or two.