Chapter 117 - Arc 8 - Ch X: Dead Reckoning

Author's Note: I usually don't do pre-chapter author's notes, but I do give warnings in rare cases when appropriate.

This is a bonus chapter, but it is canon and not an omake. As the date suggests, it takes place between chapters 111 and 112, and in proper chronological order, is the next chapter for Patrons. However, I tried to ensure the exact chronology isn't essential to the events of this chapter, so Patrons and public readers alike could enjoy it as a Friday the 13th bonus.

The Patron version of this chapter contains Explicit Sexual Content and is labeled and completely skippable if you're not interested.

Chapter 11X

Arc 8: Avengers

Ch X: Dead Reckoning

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Location: Flushing, Queens, New York

The fluorescent lights of the so-called "Magical Emporium" buzzed and flickered overhead like dying insects, over shelves lined with what Tyson was beginning to suspect was overpriced junk. The cramped shop smelled of artificial incense and desperation, the kind of place that preyed on people who needed real help and settled for pretty lies. Shelves lined with crystals, candles, and jars occupied a narrow storefront wedged between a laundromat and a discount electronics store in Flushing, Queens. A bell jangled as he pushed the door closed behind them.

Perusing the shelves, he lifted a small glass vial labeled "Authentic Graveyard Dust - $29.99" and turned it in his large hands, studying the grayish powder inside.

"What do you think?" he asked, showing the vial to Calypso. "The guy online said this place had rare ingredients."

Calypso Ezili stood beside him, elegant in a fitted black and leopard print dress that seemed wildly out of place in the shabby surroundings yet perfectly suited to the faux occult nature of the shop. She took the vial from his hand, uncorked it, and gave it a delicate sniff before recoiling.

"Dis chicken bone dust? Dey ground up leftover bones and added food coloring." She recorked the vial and placed it back on the shelf with two perfectly manicured fingers, as if even touching it offended her. "Real graveyard dirt doesn't smell like potting soil. It carries de essence of de departed in the cold earth, old wood, sometimes iron from ancient nails."

Tyson had been so confident about his online research, proud even. Now he felt like a tourist who'd just paid fifty dollars for a plastic Rolex. "I thought I'd done my homework; cross-referenced suppliers..."

"Forums full of people who learned from other people who bought from shops like dis." Calypso's tone wasn't mocking, just matter-of-fact. "Like asking a McDonald's cook to teach you French cuisine."

Moving to examine a bundle of dried herbs hanging from a hook, he read the sign aloud. "Rare Alpine herbs for protection spells. These look legitimate, at least."

She plucked the bundle from his hands and pulled it apart with swift, decisive movements, crushing leaves between her fingers and inhaling. "Oregano and thyme from de grocery store, with food coloring." She tossed the bundle back onto the counter. "I grew up in my grand-mère's garden. Dese are what she put in jambalaya."

The casual way Calypso mentioned her grandmother made him pause. In all their lessons, she'd never shared personal details like that. He was curious about the garden, about growing up learning real magic, but she was already moving through the narrow aisles with the confidence of an expert appraiser. He followed, watching her assess each item, beginning to understand this wasn't just about shopping. This was her demonstrating the difference between her world and the cheap imitations that surrounded them.

"Dis crystal?" She held up a large purple stone, angling it toward the light. "Stained glass. Real amethyst has subtle variations in color, natural flaws dat make each piece unique." She set it down and picked up a small leather pouch. "And dis gris-gris bag? Tourist trinket. No power, no purpose. A real gris-gris would have personal items, specific herbs chosen for de bearer."

"How do you tell the difference so quickly?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I mean, that crystal looked real to me."

"You feel magic differently than I do. Your power is more... direct. Physical. Mine requires sensitivity to subtle energies. After twenty years, fake magic feels like cardboard tastes. Flat, empty, wrong." She picked up another crystal and handed it to him. "Try feeling dis one with your enhanced senses."

He took the stone, focusing. After a moment, he understood. "It's completely inert. No energy signature at all."

"Exactly. Real crystals hold energy, even if dey're not specifically charged for magic."

The shop owner, a middle-aged woman wearing excessive jewelry and a flowing purple scarf, glared at them from behind the counter. She'd clearly been listening to their conversation. "If you're not buying anything, maybe you should leave."

"We're considering our options," Tyson replied diplomatically, though he was beginning to agree with her suggestion.

"What about these candles?" he asked, pointing to a display of black tapers labeled for banishing rituals.

She lifted one of the candles to her nose, inhaling deeply before her expression soured. "Regular paraffin with synthetic fragrance oil." Calypso held it out for him to smell. "You notice de harsh chemical scent? Real ritual candles are hand-dipped with beeswax, blessed herbs, oils pressed from plants grown in prepared soil." She set it down with obvious distaste. "Dese might as well be birthday candles from a gas station."

Understanding dawned on him. Every item in the shop was a cheap imitation designed to fool the desperate or ignorant. He found himself grateful for her expertise and slightly embarrassed by how much he still had to learn. Despite all his absorbed powers, after months of training, he still felt like a novice student when it came to magic.

He leaned against a bookshelf, causing it to wobble precariously. He steadied it with one hand, noting how even the furniture felt cheap and unstable. "You mentioned you needed to pick up components for teaching me a ritual."

"Not from here," she said firmly, selecting a small jar labeled "Dragon's Blood Resin" and unscrewing the cap. "Dis is not dragon's blood. Real dragon's blood is one of de rarest components on de planet. Hardly any dragons left, der all in hiding or protected."

He watched her move through the shop with the confidence of someone who could spot a fake from across the room. Every dismissive gesture, every knowing glance at overpriced junk, reminded him why he'd been smart to bring her along. More than that, he could see genuine passion when she handled even the fake components, explaining their real purposes, their proper uses.

"You know," he said, "I'm glad you didn't just send me out with a list. I probably would have bought half the stuff in here thinking it was legitimate."

"Many do," she replied, examining a bundle of white sage. "At least dis is real sage." Calypso placed it back on the shelf. "Magic is not about fancy labels and mysterious powders. It is about intention, knowledge, and respect for de traditions."

Tools and techniques mattered, but understanding the deeper principles made the difference between craft and art.

"So, where do we get the real stuff? The ingredients we actually need?"

Her lips curved into a slight smile, the closest thing to genuine amusement he had seen from her all day. "I know a place. Real practitioners, real ingredients." She glanced toward the door. "But we get back on de motorcycle. Dey don't deliver."

"Is it far?" he asked, already moving toward the exit, eager to leave the disappointing shop behind.

"An old botanica run by a Santeria priestess. She knows me. She will have what we need."

The shop owner called after them as they approached the door. "Hey! Are you buying anything or just criticizing my merchandise?"

She turned, fixing the woman with a cold stare. "Your merchandise criticizes itself. Perhaps learn de difference between magic and marketing."

He suppressed a smile as he held the door open. He quickly popped over to the white sage and purchased it. Calypso said it was real, he wasn't strapped for cash, and didn't want to generate a bad reputation in the city. Besides, he'd learned something in the shop, and it was worth a small purchase. Outside, his motorcycle waited at the curb.

"You know," he said as he stepped outside, "I'm starting to think half of magic is just knowing when someone's trying to sell you oregano like a shady drug dealer."

"More than half," Calypso replied, smoothing her dress as she prepared to mount the motorcycle behind him. "De most dangerous thing for a practitioner is false knowledge. Better to know nothing than to believe in lies."

He swung his leg over the seat and started the engine. "I guess that applies to more than just magic."

"All things," she agreed, carefully positioning herself behind him. "Now, we go find de real ingredients. Den your lessons can truly begin."

The motorcycle roared to life beneath them, and he guided it into the flow of traffic.

For several blocks, they rode in comfortable silence. He found himself hyperaware of her presence behind him; the way her thighs pressed against his, her arms wrapped securely around his waist. It struck him that this was the first time they'd been truly alone together, away from the House of M and all its complications. Just the two of them, sharing the intimate space of the motorcycle, heading toward something that felt more like a date than a simple shopping trip.

She pressed her body against his back, arms wrapped firmly around his waist. The closeness felt intimate in a way that caught him off guard. Her warmth seeped through his clothes, and the sensation triggered an unexpected memory.

Natasha had ridden with him like this. But Calypso's hold felt different.

She seemed to sense his thoughts. Her hands spread flat against his abdomen, no longer just holding on for safety but exploring the contours of his muscles through his shirt. She pressed closer, her body molding perfectly against his. For her, the closeness was equally affecting. Calypso found herself enjoying the solid strength of him beneath her hands, the security of being pressed against his broad back. Despite having given away her ability to feel love long ago, she still experienced physical desire, and his presence and power awakened something primal in her. Her chin occasionally rested on his shoulder as she directed him through the streets.

"Left here," she instructed as they entered a neighborhood with Caribbean flags hanging from windows and the scent of jerk spices wafting from restaurants. "Den right at de next light."

They pulled up outside a small storefront with peeling green paint and a hand-painted sign in faded letters. Potted plants crowded the entrance, their leaves spilling over onto the sidewalk. Through the windows, warm amber light glowed invitingly.

She dismounted gracefully, smoothing her fitted dress. He couldn't help but notice. The dress seemed excessive for a simple shopping trip, and he was beginning to suspect the choice had been intentional.

"This place has what we need?" he asked, securing the motorcycle.

"Everyting we could want," she confirmed. "Madame Josephine brings supplies directly from Haiti. No tourist trinkets here, only de real tings."

The bell above the door jingled softly as they entered, the sound somehow warmer and more welcoming than the discordant clang of the fake shop. The scent hit him immediately. Layers of earthy, complex aromas. Real sage and sweetgrass, cedar that reminded him of forests, and underneath it all, something that might have been ocean salt mixed with fertile earth. Dried plants hung from wooden beams in carefully arranged bundles, their colors still vibrant despite being preserved. Glass jars filled with roots, leaves, and powders lined wooden shelves behind the counter.

An elderly woman with silver-streaked hair wrapped in a colorful scarf looked up from where she sat sorting beans, and her eyes widened at the sight of Calypso.

"Ezili! Mo pa te wè ou depi lontan!" The old woman exclaimed in Creole, rising from her stool.

"Josephine, mon ami," she replied, embracing the woman. "It has been too long."

Josephine's gaze shifted to him, her expression immediately cooling. She said something rapid and questioning to Calypso, never taking her eyes off his face.

"He is with me," she assured her in English. "My student." She placed a hand on his arm. "He can be trusted."

The old woman's scrutiny continued for another long moment before she nodded once, sharply. "What you need today, Ezili?"

"Many things. We prepare for important work."

Josephine unlocked a cabinet behind the counter and gestured for them to follow her into a back room where the real merchandise was kept. The space was smaller but more organized, with labeled containers arranged by purpose rather than alphabetically.

"First, genuine graveyard dirt," Calypso said, moving to a shelf of glass jars. She selected one containing dark soil with white flecks. "From de oldest cemetery in Port-au-Prince. You see de white? Bone fragments. It carries de essence of generations."

She placed it in his hands and moved to another shelf. As she reached for a small bottle, she explained, "Dis oil is pressed from plants grown at crossroads. Places where de veil between worlds thins."

As they moved through the shop, she made careful selections. Small bone fragments wrapped in red cloth, bundles of herbs tied with human hair, vials of liquids. With each selection, she explained the purpose and proper use, standing close enough to him that their shoulders touched.

"Dese seeds must be planted during de dark moon," she explained, reaching across him to retrieve a small envelope, her breast brushing against his arm. "Dey grow into plants that attract certain spirits."

The contact felt deliberate, and when he glanced at her, the knowing look in her eyes confirmed it.

Josephine spoke up suddenly from where she was grinding something with a mortar and pestle. "De spirits restless lately. Many practitioners feeling it. Dark things stirring."

Calypso paused in her examination of herbs, giving the old woman's words more consideration than her initial response suggested. "I've felt... disturbances. But dey seemed random, unfocused. Not de organized darkness you're describing." She glanced at him. "My focus has been on life magic recently; resurrection, healing, binding. Necromancy operates on different frequencies. I may have missed de signs because I wasn't listening for dem." She waved a dismissive hand. "But there are always stories of dark spirits. Every generation thinks dey live in special times. Josey, you've spent too much time in America, de Halloween spirit is affecting you."

"Dis different," Josephine insisted, her grinding becoming more forceful. "Old powers waking. Be careful with your workings."

"I am always careful," Calypso replied, selecting a bundle of dried flowers. She turned to him, holding them up for his inspection. "Dese must be burned at midnight to prepare de ritual space."

As they continued gathering supplies, he found himself increasingly aware of her in ways that had nothing to do with magic. The subtle floral scent of her perfume mingled with the shop's herbal aromas. He caught himself watching the sway of her hips as Calypso moved between shelves, the way her dress hugged her curves. When she leaned over a low shelf to reach something in the back, the movement caused her dress to pull tight across her hips, and he found his gaze lingering appreciatively before catching himself.

When he looked up, he found her watching him over her shoulder, with a knowing smile. Instead of straightening immediately, she reached a little farther, deliberately prolonging the moment.

The message was clear.

She was as aware of him as he was of her.

They continued gathering supplies that would fit in the motorcycle's saddlebags. She explained each item's significance, standing closer than necessary.

"Dis powder," she said, taking his arm and guiding his hand as she opened a small container, "must be applied with bare fingers in a specific pattern. Like dis." Calypso traced a symbol on his forearm, her touch lingering. "It opens de senses to things beyond de physical world."

He felt the warmth of her skin against his, wondering if this shopping trip had transformed into something else entirely. She had dressed for this outing as if it were a date, and her every movement seemed calculated to draw his attention to her body.

Josephine handed her a small leather pouch filled with bones as they continued their conversation. The shop's back room smelled of herbs and incense, creating an atmosphere thick with mysticism.

"De difference between Haitian Vodou and New Orleans Voodoo is de traditions became mixed with Catholic practices and local customs. Dey focus more on gris-gris bags and voodoo dolls. Haitian Vodou remains closer to its African roots. We honor de loa directly. Our ceremonies involve possession, where de loa ride de faithful like horses." Tyson chuckled at her comparison. Her voice grew animated, passion evident as she spoke faster, gesturing with her hands. "De drums, de dancing, de offerings, all have specific purposes. Each loa has its own rhythms, colors, and foods."

She reached for a jar of red powder on a high shelf. "In Haiti, we use genuine—"

Her body went rigid. The jar slipped from her fingers and would have shattered on the floor, had his reflexes not kicked in to catch it. Her eyes rolled back, showing only whites, and her hand shot out to grip his arm with surprising strength. Her nails dug into his flesh.

"Mon Dieu," Calypso said, voice suddenly hollow and trembling. Her body swayed as if caught in an invisible current. "An extreme surge of dark magic. Something powerful awakening nearby." Her voice shook with genuine concern, something he had rarely heard from her.

"How nearby? What kind of threat level?"

Her eyes gradually returned to normal, but her grip on his arm remained tight. She looked disoriented, blinking rapidly. "Within de city. Perhaps two miles. And de threat... Dis is old magic. Powerful."

Josephine crossed herself, muttering prayers under her breath.

"We need to investigate," she insisted, already gathering their purchases into a bag. "Dis kind of power surge, it's not natural. Someone is calling something big. Something dat should remain sleeping."

"Could it be a false alarm?" he asked, helping her collect their items.

She shook her head firmly. "I know de difference between minor workings and dis. Dis is like comparing a candle to a forest fire."

They hastily paid Josephine, who pressed extra protective herbs into her hands. "Be careful, child."

Minutes later, they were on his motorcycle, weaving through traffic. She pressed against his back, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, directing him with taps and instructions in his ear.

"Left here. Now straight. De energy... It's getting stronger. And more focused."

As they rode, he became increasingly aware of her body against his. The way her thighs pressed against his, her chest against his back, her breath warm on his neck when she leaned forward to speak. Despite the urgency of their mission, he couldn't help noticing how right it felt to have her there.

Her grip tightened suddenly. "Something is watching us."

He checked his mirrors. The traffic behind them seemed normal. A delivery truck, two sedans, and a taxi.

"I don't see or smell anything," he muttered.

They zigzagged through Queens streets, her guidance becoming increasingly urgent. "We're getting closer. Turn right at de next light."

Calvary Cemetery loomed ahead, its countless headstones stretching across the landscape like stone teeth. Even from outside the gates, he could feel something wrong in the air, a heaviness, a pressure against his skin.

"De veil between worlds is thinning," she whispered. "Someone is forcing it open."

He could feel it now. Not just the wrongness in the air, but a vibration beneath his feet, so subtle it was almost subliminal, like a massive heart beating far underground.

"We should park here," Calypso said as they approached the cemetery entrance. "Continue on foot. Less noticeable."

He guided the motorcycle to a spot partially hidden by overgrown bushes. As she dismounted, her dress riding up slightly, he caught her watching him watch her. She smiled slyly before her expression turned serious again.

— Rogue Redemption —

The massive wrought-iron gates of Calvary Cemetery loomed before them, their ornate spirals and points silhouetted against the darkening sky. Gothic mausoleums stood like miniature cathedrals among fields of weathered tombstones that stretched into darkness, partially illuminated by the occasional streetlight. The cemetery's vastness was overwhelming. Four massive sections containing over three million graves, making it one of the largest in the United States.

As they approached the entrance, the temperature plummeted. Tyson noticed his breath forming small clouds in the suddenly frigid air. The normal sounds of Queens; car horns, distant sirens, and the general hum of humanity, all faded away, replaced by an unnatural silence.

"You feel it?" Calypso whispered, her voice unnaturally loud in the stillness. "De boundary between life and death... It's thinning."

"Something's definitely happening," he confirmed, scanning the cemetery grounds. The wrongness of it all prickled at his skin.

They slipped through a pedestrian entrance, moving cautiously between the first row of graves. The temperature had dropped another ten degrees since they'd entered, their breath now forming visible clouds in the suddenly frigid air. At first, he thought it was just the normal coolness of evening settling over the open space. Then he noticed how the shadows seemed to linger longer than they should, refusing to shift even when clouds passed over the moon. The fog came next. Not the natural mist that might roll in from the East River, but something that seemed to seep up from the ground itself, carrying with it the scent of old earth and something that reminded him unpleasantly of the morgue.

"Fog doesn't form like this," he observed, watching as it seemed to pour from the ground rather than settle from above. "Not naturally."

She knelt beside a grave, placing her palm flat against the soil. She closed her eyes, concentrating. "De earth is disturbed. Not just physically. Spiritually." Her eyes snapped open. "We need to find de source quickly."

They moved deeper into the cemetery toward the older sections, the fog thickening with each step. Visibility dropped to mere feet, forcing them to stay close to the main path. The only sounds were their footsteps on the cracked asphalt and the distant, muffled rumble of traffic beyond the cemetery's iron boundaries.

Then, from somewhere in the mist ahead of them, came the sound of metal scraping against stone. Deliberate, rhythmic, like someone sharpening a blade. Or like claws testing their sharpness against a headstone.

"Dat way," she suddenly said, changing direction. "De energy is strongest there."

The air here felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Calypso stopped abruptly, raising her hand. "Listen."

Beneath their feet, a scratching sound. Faint at first, then more insistent. The soil near a military grave began to shift and bulge.

"Step back," he warned, positioning himself between her and the disturbed grave.

The earth cracked and split. A hand, gray, partially decomposed, still wearing the tattered remains of a military uniform sleeve thrust upward through the soil, fingers clawing at the air.

"Shit," he muttered, taking another step back as the hand was joined by another.

Her face had gone pale. Calypso looked around at other graves that were beginning to show similar signs of disturbance.

"Dis isn't voodoo," she said, her voice tense. "It's necromancy. Too strong, too precise. Dis is de work of someone with centuries of experience."

As more hands clawed through the cemetery soil, pieces began clicking together in his mind. Pieces that formed an uncomfortable picture. The shopping trip had been her idea. She'd known exactly where to go, had sensed the disturbance with suspicious precision, had guided him here with perfect accuracy.

He turned to her slowly, his posture stiffening despite himself. He disliked the suspicion growing in his chest.

"Convenient timing," he said, voice carefully controlled. "You led me here just as this started happening?"

Her expression shifted from concern to shock, then to unmistakable hurt at the accusation. "You think I..." Her voice faltered. "Mon Dieu, Tyson." The pain in her voice was unmistakable. After her willing submission, trusting him with her power, the ritual they completed, and the fledgling partnership they were forming.

For a moment, they stood facing each other, the rising dead temporarily forgotten. Then she did something unexpected. She extended her bare hand toward him, palm up.

"Absorb my memories," Calypso offered, meeting his gaze directly despite the hurt there. "See de truth for yourself."

He looked at her outstretched hand. She was offering complete vulnerability. With his absorption powers, he could take her memories and see exactly what she knew about this situation. It was the ultimate proof of innocence, but also a risk for her. He could kill her by holding on, if he decided to.

He noted her vulnerability, the openness of her gesture, then briefly took her hand.

The connection was immediate. Images flashed through his mind.

Being in the botanica, feeling the first surge of necromantic energy, her genuine surprise and growing alarm, her concern and attraction towards him as they raced to investigate, her complete ignorance of who might be behind this.

He released her hand quickly, the flood of her genuine memories still echoing in his mind.

Her surprise at the magical disturbance, her protective concern for him, and her complete ignorance about who might be behind the attack.

All of it real, all of it honest.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words feeling inadequate for the hurt he'd caused. "I know you've never given me reason to doubt you. It's just—"

"I know my history, Tyson," Calypso interrupted. "I understand why you would think it. But it still hurts to know that your first instinct is suspicion, even with me."

Understanding replaced the initial sting of betrayal in her voice, but he caught the slight stiffness in her posture, the way she maintained just a fraction more distance than before. Even as they prepared to fight side by side, both were acutely aware of the new fragility in their partnership.

Around them, more graves were disturbing, more hands breaking through the soil. Whatever was happening, it was accelerating, forcing them to set aside the emotional tension for now.

His spider-sense gave the faintest tingle. He swept his gaze across the cemetery's shadows, noting how several areas seemed darker than they should be, as if light itself was being absorbed. Someone was watching them. He was certain of it.

"We need to stop this." Her voice had shifted back to professional mode, though the change suggested his earlier suspicion still stung. She reached into her bag, pulling out some of the supplies they had purchased. "I can slow them, perhaps, but finding de source is our priority."

Nexus materialized in his grip. "Save the supplies for when we need them." He positioned himself between her and the approaching horde. "I'll take point. Stay close."

The first of the risen dead pulled itself completely from the grave, turning empty eye sockets toward them as more of its kind emerged from the disturbed earth.

More graves erupted in sequence, each disgorging soldiers in varying states of decay. Some still wore recognizable patches and insignia, others were little more than bones held together by rotting sinew and necromantic energy. As the first lurched forward, more graves erupted around them, disgorging similar figures.

Nexus cut a glowing arc through the air. When the blade met the first zombie's neck, it cleaved through with minimal resistance, sending the head tumbling to the ground as the body collapsed.

"Those uniforms..." he muttered, something nagging at him as he cleanly sliced through a second attacker. The tactical gear looked familiar, but not in a way that made sense. Not NYPD, not National Guard.

"What about dem?" she asked.

"I've seen this gear before." The realization hit him like a physical blow. "Xavier Institute. These are Stryker's men." He spun to avoid grasping hands, noting that all the rising corpses wore identical remnants of the same uniform. "Why the hell are they all buried in Queens, together?"

She had begun working her own magic, her hands weaving intricate patterns that left trails of silvery light in the air. The symbols Calypso drew hung suspended for heartbeats before dissolving into motes of energy that swirled around the approaching zombies. Her voice carried power that made the air vibrate, each syllable in rapid Creole causing the ground beneath them to pulse with sympathetic rhythm. The temperature rose around her hands as she worked, steam rising where her power met the cemetery's unnatural cold.

"Lespri mò, tande mwen! Leve epi sèvi mèt ou!" she commanded, focusing her energy on three of the approaching zombies.

"Dead spirit, hear me! Arise and serve your master!"

Threads of silver light shot from her fingers, wrapping around the targeted corpses like glowing lassoes. The zombies shuddered as the energy invaded their necromantic animation, then stopped their advance entirely. Their heads turned toward her with jerky, puppet-like movements. The milky film covering their eyes briefly flashed with silvery light, her color, not their master's.

"I have dese three," she called to him. "But my control is temporary. Dey fight de necromancer's hold."

With a flick of her wrist, Calypso sent her controlled zombies lurching toward their former comrades, creating chaos in the undead ranks as they began tearing at each other with rotting hands.

He was already focusing on the next wave. "This doesn't make sense," he said, confusion evident in his voice as he decapitated another attacker.

The cemetery had become a battlefield. Dozens of graves now lay open, with more corpses emerging each moment. He reached out with his magnetic abilities, feeling the metal components of the cemetery's ornate gates and fences. With a gesture, he tore a section free, transforming the wrought iron into deadly projectiles that impaled several approaching zombies.

Though the undead soldiers seemed stronger than they had been in life, one tore through a marble headstone with bare hands. They were neither agile nor fast. He found himself easily dispatching them with well-placed slashes from Nexus, the sword's edge severing necromantic connections as it cut through decaying flesh.

"Behind you!" Calypso warned, directing one of her controlled zombies to intercept an attacker approaching his flank.

They fell into an effective rhythm. Her magic created openings, confusing the undead ranks or temporarily seizing control of key targets. He followed with decisive strokes from his sword.

"Something's wrong," he called out, noticing a change in the zombies' behavior. "They're organizing."

The remaining undead had indeed stopped their mindless shambling. They formed crude ranks, moving with purpose rather than blind aggression. Then came the most disturbing development.

They began speaking.

"Alpha team, left flank," rasped a partially decomposed corpse, its voice a dry monotone that nonetheless carried the unmistakable cadence of military command. "Bravo, circle right. Contain and neutralize."

"Mon Dieu," she whispered, her concentration momentarily broken by the shock of hearing the dead speak. One of her controlled zombies immediately broke free.

The undead soldiers executed coordinated flanking maneuvers, attempting to surround them. These weren't mindless shamblers but tactically aware units operating with military precision.

"Fall back," commanded another corpse, its innards spilling from its torso. "Weapons free."

With mechanical precision, the zombies reached for holsters at their sides and rifles strapped to their backs. Decayed fingers wrapped around triggers as they took aim.

The moment Tyson saw weapons being drawn, his hand shot out instinctively. Magnetic force rippled through the air like invisible lightning, and suddenly every piece of metal in the zombies' possession began to rebel against its wielders. Rifle barrels twisted into pretzels, handgun slides jammed mid-action, and ammunition already in flight simply stopped, hanging suspended for a heartbeat before clattering harmlessly to the cemetery soil.

"Dey know military tactics," she observed, reinforcing her control over her remaining zombies. "Dis is beyond simple animation of de dead."

A particularly large zombie, wearing the tattered remnants of what might have been an officer's insignia, stepped forward. Its voice emerged clearer than the others, almost conversational despite coming from a throat half-rotted away.

"Target identified. Tyson. Priority capture target."

He froze momentarily, shocked at hearing his name from the creature's lips. He recovered quickly, severing the zombie's head with a precise swing of Nexus.

Her eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You recognize dese soldiers? Whoever did dis, dey know your history."

This wasn't random necromancy or a general attack. Someone had specifically raised Stryker's men, soldiers who had once hunted mutants, and commanded them to target him specifically.

A new wave of zombies emerged from the ground, these wearing less decayed uniforms, suggesting more recent burials. They moved with greater coordination, forming a perimeter around them while maintaining distance from Nexus's deadly reach.

"We need to find de source," Calypso insisted, her earlier hurt temporarily set aside in the face of this threat. "Dese are just pawns. De necromancer must be nearby."

A chilling laugh cut through the graveyard, echoing between mausoleums and dancing across tombstones. The sound froze him mid-swing, his blade halting after slicing through a zombie's neck.

That laugh…

He knew it.

Had heard it only weeks ago, when he thought he'd silenced it forever.

"No," he said, turning slowly toward the source.

The fog parted like a theater curtain, revealing a grotesque figure rising above newer graves. The Green Goblin hovered on a badly damaged glider, sparks cascading from exposed wiring like fireflies. The glider listed to one side, its stabilizers clearly compromised, but somehow remained airborne. Norman Osborn's face was partially decomposed, one cheek missing to reveal yellowed teeth in a permanent rictus grin. His green armor was cracked and scorched, bearing the unmistakable damage from their last encounter.

"Impossible," he breathed.

The Goblin's laugh came again, more ragged this time, bubbling through a throat that should no longer produce sound. "Surprised to see me? Death is such a... temporary inconvenience these days."

The corpse that had once been Norman Osborn reached into a tattered pouch at his belt, withdrawing one of his signature pumpkin bombs. The device glowed with a sickly orange light, illuminating the grotesque features of his partially destroyed face.

"Still playing hero, Tyson?" The Goblin's voice rasped, unnaturally loud in the cemetery's unnatural silence. "How many more will die for your pretensions? Your delusions of grandeur?"

He hurled the bomb toward a cluster of headstones. The explosion sent marble fragments flying like shrapnel, shattering the peace of the dead. Flames erupted, casting long, dancing shadows across the graveyard. In that flickering light, Tyson could see hundreds more graves beginning to stir, soil shifting as more hands pushed upward.

"You think you killed me?" Norman's corpse continued, his voice a horrible parody of his living self. "You think death stops men like me? Men with vision?"

He pointed Nexus threateningly. "You're not Norman. You're just a puppet. Someone's pulling your strings."

The zombie soldiers had formed a loose circle around them, awaiting commands from their undead general. The Goblin reached into his pouch again, producing another bomb.

"Puppet? No. I still remember everything." The bomb arced through the air, exploding against a mausoleum door. Stone fragments rained down as flames licked upward. "I remember how you sabotaged me. How you killed me and made it look like an accident. You are just as much the villain as you made me out to be. And you!" he shouted at Calypso, "The hunter's whore. You turncoat. You gave up without a fight."

She had begun moving her hands in intricate patterns, her lips forming words in ancient Creole. The air around her fingers shimmered with silver light.

"His connection to de necromancer is strong," she whispered to him. "But I can disrupt it. Need time."

He nodded almost imperceptibly, then stepped forward, drawing the Goblin's attention. "If you remember so much, Norman, you remember how this ended last time."

He reached out with his magnetic abilities, feeling the metal components of the damaged glider. The device shuddered in mid-air, its sparking intensifying. Norman's corpse looked down as the glider suddenly dipped, nearly throwing him off.

"Clever boy," the Goblin hissed, struggling to maintain control. "But I've come prepared this time."

He flung his remaining bombs in rapid succession, not at Tyson but in a wide arc around the cemetery. Each explosion illuminated more disturbed graves, more rising corpses. The fires spread, creating a hellish backdrop of dancing flames and shambling dead.

The heat from the fires felt wrong; too intense, too hungry. The flames themselves seemed to move with purpose, consuming headstones and spreading between graves with unnatural speed.

Behind him, her chanting grew louder, more insistent. The silver light around her hands had intensified, forming complex symbols that hung in the air momentarily before dissolving.

"Espri lanmò, retounen nan repo ou! Mwen koupe lyen ki kenbe ou!"

Her voice carried power, each syllable seeming to ripple through the air. The nearest zombie soldiers staggered, their movements becoming erratic. Some collapsed entirely, the necromantic energy animating them temporarily disrupted.

The Goblin noticed immediately. "No!" he shrieked, his voice losing its human quality, becoming something more primal and terrified. "Stop her!"

The remaining zombies lurched toward her, but Tyson was faster. Nexus flashed in the firelight as he cut them down, his movements fluid and precise. Each strike severed the necromantic connections, sending the corpses crumpling to the ground.

"Your puppeteer is losing control, Norman," he called out, decapitating another zombie without breaking stride.

The Goblin's glider sparked violently, and metal groaned as he wrenched the glider sideways. Norman's corpse clung desperately to the handles as he sent the device spiraling toward the ground.

At the last moment, the Goblin leapt free, rolling across the cemetery soil with surprising agility for a dead man. He rose to his feet, reaching for another bomb, only to find his pouch empty.

"It's over, Norman," he said, advancing with Nexus raised. "You've lost again."

The Goblin's ruined face twisted into something resembling a smile. "Is it? Look around you, Tyson. This is just the beginning."

Her voice rose to a crescendo, the silver light around her hands pulsing with each word. "Mwen fèmen pòt la! Mwen sele pasaj la! Retounen nan lanmò!" The light shot from her fingers, encircling the Goblin in glowing chains of magical energy. "I close the door! I seal the passage! Return to death!"

Norman's corpse struggled against the binding, but found himself immobilized, feet sinking into the cemetery soil as if it had become quicksand.

"Now, Tyson!" Calypso called, strain evident in her voice as she maintained the binding spell.

He didn't hesitate. Nexus sliced through the air, its edge meeting the Goblin's neck. The head tumbled backward, the body remaining upright for a moment before collapsing into the earth that seemed eager to reclaim it.

The fires continued to burn around them, but the remaining zombies fell motionless, the necromantic energy animating them severed with Norman's second death. The cemetery grew still once more, save for the crackling of flames that were already beginning to die down from their initial fury.

He turned to her, who was leaning heavily against a tombstone, exhaustion evident in her face.

"Someone gathered these bodies deliberately," she said, her voice hoarse from the magical exertion.

"All Stryker's men. All buried here. Norman's body recovered and prepared." He surveyed the devastation around them. Dozens of open graves, shattered headstones, and the still-burning fires casting grotesque shadows across the hallowed ground. He agreed, helping her to stand. "This wasn't random. This was orchestrated. Someone knew exactly who I was, who I'd fought, and decided to use them against me."

"And dey knew enough about necromancy to control dis many corpses at once," Calypso added. Her breathing began to level out as she recovered. "Dat level of skill is rare."

His gaze lingered on Norman's fallen form, now sinking into the earth as if being devoured. "They wanted me to see him again. To face him again. This was personal."

The stench hit him like a physical blow; feral, primal, and unmistakable. It was a scent he had hoped never to encounter again. The odor that had filled his nostrils that night in the Alley during the mutant massacre. Blood, sweat, and something distinctly animalistic.

"What is it?" she asked, noticing his sudden tension.

His eyes narrowed, scanning the fog that had begun to thicken around the cemetery's perimeter. The fires from Norman's bombs cast eerie, dancing shadows through the mist. Whatever was manipulating it wanted them to see what was coming. He realized it was another tool in their opponent's arsenal, serving to control the battlefield and orchestrate reveals for maximum psychological impact. The supernatural fog and the surrounding fires seemed to work in tandem, responding to each wave of necromantic energy, thickening when the dead rose and parting only when revealing the next threat.

Even through the mist, the newest approaching figure's distinctive build was unmistakable. Broad shoulders, powerful limbs, and hands that ended in savage claws. As it stepped forward, firelight illuminated matted blond hair.

"Sabretooth." He breathed.

The massive mutant's body showed minimal decomposition, as if death had barely touched him. His healing factor must have slowed the decay process significantly. The creature's eyes glowed with an unnatural amber light, the same hue that had animated Norman's corpse.

His spider-sense flared, a violent warning that sent electric tingles racing down his spine. He pivoted instinctively, Nexus slashing through the air where his head had been a split second earlier.

A second Sabretooth had lunged from the fog to his right, moving silently. This one was different; emaciated, pale, with sunken cheeks and exposed bone visible through patches of missing flesh. Despite its withered appearance, it moved with terrifying speed.

"Two of them?" she gasped, already weaving a spell with her fingers.

He recognized the second creature immediately. It was the cloned Sabretooth from the alley, the one Muse had completely exsanguinated. Its body had been drained of blood, leaving it looking like a desiccated husk. Now, animated by necromancy, it was somehow even more horrifying.

The original Sabretooth circled to their left while the clone stalked from the right, both moving with the predatory patience of apex hunters.

"How does anyone know about him?" he said, his voice tight with confusion and growing anger. "I killed him the first time on a Canadian road in the middle of nowhere."

The original Sabretooth, Victor Creed, had died far from witnesses on a lonely stretch of Canadian highway. There had been no body recovery team, no official documentation. The clone had died in the Alley.

Hadn't Sinister taken Sabertooth's body when she left? Was Sinister behind this? She didn't do magic as far as he knew. And they had a tentative agreement…

There was no more time to process the implications. Both Sabretooths attacked simultaneously, coordinating their assault.

He chose his target. He met the original Sabretooth's charge head-on, Nexus slicing through the air in a diagonal cut. The blade connected with the creature's shoulder, carving through undead muscle and bone. Any living opponent would have been crippled, but this zombie barely staggered. Its claws swept toward his chest; he pulled back just enough that they tore through his shirt without finding skin. Using his backward momentum, he spun left and brought Nexus across the creature's back in a follow-up strike.

Twenty feet to his right, Calypso faced the clone alone, her hands already weaving complex patterns of silver light. "Chenn espri, mare li!" she commanded. "Chains of the spirit, bind him!"

Glowing chains of energy materialized around the emaciated Sabretooth, binding its limbs momentarily. The creature snarled, a sound no dead thing should make, and strained against the magical restraints. To her horror, the bindings began to stretch and weaken.

"Dey retain deir healing abilities!" she called to him, reinforcing her spell with additional incantations. "De necromancy is feeding deir regeneration!"

He ducked under another swipe from the original Sabretooth, noting that the wound he'd inflicted moments earlier had already closed. It was strange. The Sabertooths were obviously dead, and looked like they'd decayed to a point, but then it had stopped. Undead tissue knit itself back together, but only to that same level of decay, maintaining their horrifying appearance.

"We need to dismember them completely," she called, as he parried another attack. "Take the heads first!"

The cemetery had become a nightmarish battlefield. Headstones shattered as the Sabretooths used them as launching points for their attacks. The original Sabretooth lunged again, but this time Tyson was ready. He sidestepped the attack and brought Nexus down in a powerful arc, severing the creature's right arm at the shoulder. The limb fell to the ground, fingers still twitching with unnatural life.

The severed arm itself began crawling across the cemetery soil, dragging itself toward its host body.

The gruesome sight actually gave Tyson pause. He looked down at Nexus. "I thought this thing was supposed to cut through magic." He pointed the sword at the dismembered arm, making its way across the ground. "So, what the hell is this?"

"The magic suffuses the entire area, not just the body," Calypso answered. She had managed to bind the clone again, this time with stronger spells. "Hold it still!" she commanded, her fingers tracing complex symbols in the air. "I can slow de regeneration, but not stop it completely!"

He nodded, focusing his attention on the original Sabretooth. The creature charged again, but its movements were becoming predictable now that he had his bearings. He feinted left, then spun right, bringing Nexus around in a devastating horizontal slash.

The blade connected with Sabretooth's neck, cutting through undead flesh and bone with supernatural efficiency. The head tumbled backward, landing among the gravestones with a sickening thud. The body continued forward for two more steps before collapsing.

The decapitation seemed to end the magic, reanimating the zombie.

With the original Sabretooth re-dead, he turned his attention to the clone. Her binding spell had weakened it significantly, disrupting the necromantic energy fueling its regeneration. He didn't hesitate. Nexus sliced through the air, taking the clone's head in one clean stroke. Calypso sat atop a headstone, exhaustion evident in every line of her body.

Tyson surveyed the devastation around them. Open graves, shattered headstones, the dismembered remains of creatures he had killed once before. He looked down at the severed head of the original Sabretooth. "Someone knows things about me that almost no one else could know."

"De necromancer must be powerful indeed, to maintain control over so many corpses at once, especially ones with such strong personalities in life, that remain preserved in undeath."

The fires continued to burn around them, but did nothing to reduce the eerie mists.

His enhanced senses detected movement beyond the curtain of fog. Something was approaching, moving with the calculated precision of a predator. Not the feral charge of Sabretooth, but the measured stalking of a hunter who knew exactly where his prey stood.

"Someone else is coming," he warned, positioning himself protectively near her.

A tall figure emerged, silhouetted against the dancing flames. As it stepped forward, firelight illuminated features that caused her to take a sharp, painful intake of breath. Her normally composed face transformed into a mask of shock and recognition.

"Sergei..." The name escaped her lips in a disbelieving whisper filled with old pain.

It was unmistakably Kraven the Hunter.

His once-powerful physique remained impressive even in death, the body restored beyond what they'd seen with the other undead. He wore the remnants of his distinctive lion-mane vest, now tattered and stained with grave soil. In one hand, he gripped a spear, his eyes glowing with the same amber light that had animated the other corpses.

"Calypso," Kraven's voice rasped, his Russian accent still thick. "You chose him over me, over de hunt. Over everything we built together."

Her hands trembled slightly before she steadied them, drawing herself up to her full height.

"You're dead, Sergei. I choose life. I choose him." Her voice grew stronger with each word, the initial shock giving way to determination. "You are nothing but a puppet now."

His face contorted with rage. "A puppet? No. I remember our rituals, our hunts. De way you betrayed me for dis... pretender." He gestured toward Tyson with his spear. "He is not worthy of your loyalty."

Tyson glanced at her, seeing the complex emotions playing across her face. This was more than just another zombie attack. This was her past literally rising from the grave to confront her. He wasn't certain if he should interfere. This seemed like her past to confront, not his.

"You don't need to justify yourself to a corpse," he said quietly.

Kraven laughed. "She knows what she did. She took our sacred rituals, de ones meant to bind us together, and she used dem to empower herself while leaving me behind."

"I gave you everything I had," she responded. "My knowledge, my magic, my body. And it was never enough. You wanted more prey, more power, more control."

Kraven began circling them, moving with the surety of a lifetime hunter. His eyes never left her face, barely acknowledging Tyson's presence.

"You think dis boy understands what you are? What you've done?" Kraven taunted. "Does he know about de ritual? About de blood you've spilled? About your sister?"

She flinched visibly at the mention of her sister, but recovered quickly. "He knows more than you ever bothered to learn."

Kraven launched his attack. He vaulted over a tall headstone, spear aimed directly at her heart. Tyson moved to intercept, but Kraven had anticipated this. The hunter kicked off another gravestone mid-leap, changing his trajectory to avoid his blade while maintaining indirect momentum toward her.

She barely managed to dodge, the spear grazing her arm and drawing blood. Kraven landed in a perfect crouch, already pivoting for another strike.

"You see?" he snarled. "I still know how you move. How you think. We are still connected, even in death."

Her hands began weaving a defensive spell, silvery light forming protective sigils around her. "We were never truly connected, Sergei. You wanted a servant, not a partner. You only sought prey."

Kraven attacked again, this time using the cemetery terrain. He ducked behind mausoleums, used headstones as cover, and engaged from unexpected angles. Each time, his attacks came dangerously close to connecting. He knew her fighting style intimately. Knew when she would retreat, when she would counter.

"Your new protector cannot save you," Kraven taunted. "He does not understand de hunt as I do."

She stumbled backward as Kraven's spear nearly found her throat. Her face showed not just physical exertion but emotional turmoil. Fighting the animated corpse of her former lover was taking a psychological toll that threatened her focus.

Tyson recognized her vulnerability and moved to cover her retreat. He slashed at Kraven with Nexus, but the hunter evaded with unnatural agility. "He's using your history against you," Tyson said. "Don't let him in your head." He knew it wouldn't take much to defeat Kraven. The man had never truly been the threat he believed himself to be. But this was Calypso's demon to vanquish. He'd protect her if it came down to it, but she could win this fight.

Kraven laughed again, the sound chilling in its familiarity to her. "Too late for dat. I am in her head, have always been in her head. She carries me with her, even now. And not just her head, Mirage. I've been in her body. Have you?"

"No," she said, straightening her shoulders. Her voice hardened with newfound resolve. "You're not a part of me or my life."

She began a new incantation, different from her previous defensive spells. This one carried power that seemed to draw from her very core. The silver light around her hands intensified, becoming tinged with violet.

"De ritual we shared," she said, her voice growing stronger, "it gave you strength, but it gave me something else. Something you never understood."

Kraven sensed the change in her and attacked with renewed ferocity, recognizing the threat. He hurled his spear directly at her chest, then used the momentary distraction to close the distance between them, drawing a hunting knife from his belt.

Tyson redirected the spear with his magnetism. But Kraven was upon her, knife slashing toward her throat. She caught his wrist, her enhanced strength, a gift from the same ritual that had empowered Kraven in life, allowing her to momentarily halt his attack.

"I am not yours," she hissed, her face inches from his decaying features. "I never was truly yours."

His dead eyes widened in surprise at her strength. Still, the knife inched closer to her throat as he leaned his weight into the attack. "You belong with me," he growled. "In life or death."

Tyson saw her struggle and made a split-second decision. "Calypso!" he called, spinning Nexus in his hand. "Catch!"

He tossed the sword in a perfect arc toward her. She released one hand from Kraven's wrist, reaching up to catch Nexus by its hilt. The momentary shift allowed Kraven's knife to nick her throat, drawing a thin line of blood, but she had what she needed.

The blade sliced through Kraven's neck, severing his head from his shoulders.

The head tumbled backward, the amber light in its eyes flickering and dying. The body remained upright for a moment before collapsing to the cemetery soil.

She stood over the fallen form of her former lover. Blood trickled down her throat from the shallow cut, but she paid it no mind. Grief, relief, and finally, resolution played across her face.

The fires had reduced to scattered embers that cast flickering shadows across the cemetery, their orange glow providing the only light in the supernatural darkness. The acrid smoke mixed with the supernatural mist, creating an atmosphere that was part hellscape, part graveyard.

He moved to stand beside her. She handed Nexus back to him and, surprisingly, wrapped him in a hug.

"It's over," she said.

A voice came from the mists, echoing, chilling in its familiarity.

"It's not over, my dear. The war has just begun."

His instincts were warning him that something worse was coming. It was like they were playing a game, facing waves of enemies. Kraven couldn't be the final boss. He was too weak.

But as Tyson recognized the voice, he cursed under his breath. "You've gotta be shitting me."

He turned to her, whose face had gone rigid with recognition. "When we get back, I don't care if it costs millions, we're going to secure the graveyard, invest in whatever supplies you need, and make sure none of these guys come back again."

A figure hovered twenty feet in the air, above the fog. The distinctive silhouette was unmistakable.

Magneto.

His cape billowed around him despite the absence of wind. His eyes burned with the same amber light that had animated the others, but there was something different about him. The necromantic energy seemed to pulse and flow through him with greater intensity, as if whoever controlled these puppets had poured extra power into this particular vessel.

"You let your last girlfriend die," Magneto's corpse intoned, voice carrying the same aristocratic cadence it had in life, now tinged with supernatural malice. "This one will die too."

Tyson's jaw clenched, the words striking deeper than any physical blow could have. Jubilee's face flashed in his mind; her smile, her light, extinguished because he couldn't save her.

"Ignore him," Calypso said firmly, her fingers already tracing protective sigils in the air. "Dat is not Magneto speaking. Dey are using his memories, his voice, to hurt you."

Magneto's corpse raised a hand, and Kraven's discarded spear rose, rotated in midair, then launched directly at her heart.

Tyson reacted instinctively. His hand shot out, magnetic power surging through him to counter Magneto's. The spear froze three feet from her, suspended in the air between opposing magnetic fields.

"He didn't lose any of his powers," he warned, strain evident in his voice as he fought against Magneto's magnetic grip on the spear.

"As I suspected," she replied, already shifting her magical approach. "De necromancy preserves deir abilities, perhaps even enhances dem."

With a gesture from Magneto, the nearest metal gates tore free from their hinges, flying toward them in a deadly barrage. He released his hold on the spear, which clattered harmlessly to the ground as his counter-field dissipated, and redirected his power toward the incoming gates. He managed to deflect them, sending them crashing into nearby mausoleums.

"I need time," she said urgently, her hands moving in increasingly complex patterns. "I can disrupt de necromantic field controlling him, but de spell is complex."

"How much time?" he asked, already scanning the cemetery for the next threat.

"Two minutes. Maybe three."

Magneto's corpse descended slightly, hovering just ten feet above the ground now. His face twisted into a cruel approximation of the man's living expressions. "You think you can match my power, boy? I mastered magnetism over the decades. You're merely borrowing what you stole from others."

"I Really. Really don't like being called 'boy'. And every one of you dead assholes has called me that today."

All around the cemetery, metal objects began to respond to Magneto's power. Decorative fences around family plots, memorial plaques, forgotten maintenance tools, even the metal reinforcements within some of the newer concrete headstones. They vibrated, tore free from their moorings, and rose into the air, forming a swirling vortex of deadly projectiles.

"Get behind me," he ordered her, positioning himself between her and Magneto.

The metal storm launched forward. He threw up his hands, creating a magnetic shield that deflected most of the objects. Those that broke through, he targeted individually, altering their trajectories just enough to miss them both.

"You fight a losing battle. I can sense every piece of metal in this place. Can you?"

Something large began to rise. A forgotten maintenance vehicle, an old backhoe partially buried under debris and overgrowth at the far end of the cemetery, tore free from the earth, its metal frame groaning as it was lifted into the air.

Behind him, her chanting grew more intense, the silvery light around her hands now threaded with purple energy that seemed to pulse in opposition to the necromantic amber glow in Magneto's eyes.

"Espri lanmò, retounen nan tè a," she intoned, her voice carrying power beyond its volume. "Broken chains, severed ties, de dead shall not command de living."

The backhoe hurtled toward them. He braced himself, summoning every ounce of his magnetic ability to counter Magneto's control. The massive machine slowed in midair, caught between opposing forces. Metal groaned and bolts popped as the structure began to tear itself apart under the strain.

"Just a few more seconds," she encouraged, her face showing the strain of her magical exertion. "De disruption is building."

Magneto's corpse descended further, now hovering just six feet above the ground. His face contorted with rage, or perhaps it was the puppetmaster behind him, expressing frustration through his vessel.

"You cannot win," he snarled. "Even in death, I am Magneto. Master of magnetism. What are you but a thief of powers?"

"I'm the guy who's going to put you back in the ground," he replied.

Her spell reached its crescendo. "Now!" she shouted, clapping her hands together.

A pulse of purple energy erupted from her, expanding outward in a visible wave. When it reached Magneto, the amber light in his eyes flickered momentarily. The backhoe, still suspended in midair, dropped several feet before Magneto's power reasserted itself.

"It's working!" she exclaimed. "His control is weakening, but I cannot maintain dis disruption for long."

Disruption…

The word made him see his opportunity. Instead of trying to overpower Magneto directly, he shifted tactics. Drawing on his memory of the sensations created by Octavius's disruption belt and Vanko's interference field, he began broadcasting high-frequency alternating magnetic fields. It was the principle Vanko had explained. With Magneto's powers, Tyson didn't need the belt, he could create the effect with his own power.

He could use Magneto's power against him.

Tyson visualized his power as a sphere of competing magnetic fields, spreading from him to encompass the entire cemetery. Where Magneto's influence was a symphony, he created noise.

The effect was immediate. The backhoe crashed to the ground. The swirling metal objects fell from the air. Most importantly, Magneto's levitation faltered. The corpse dropped like a stone, hitting the ground with a sickening crack as one leg snapped under the impact.

He didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, Nexus connected with Magneto's neck, severing the head cleanly from the body.

The amber light in the eyes flickered once, twice, then extinguished completely. The cemetery fell silent once more, but this time with the stillness of true death rather than anticipation.

— Rogue Redemption —

Tyson stood over Magneto's remains. "That was too close," he said, turning back to her. "Your disruption spell was perfect timing."

She nodded, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. "De necromancer behind dis... dey are powerful beyond measure. To control so many powerful beings at once, to maintain deir abilities so precisely..."

"And to know so much about me," he added grimly, looking around at the fallen bodies of his past enemies.

The cemetery had fallen silent save for the crackling of dying fires and the occasional crumbling of damaged stonework.

"We did it," he said, the simple statement carrying the weight of their shared ordeal.

"We did. Your power and my magic... dey complement each other well." She straightened, brushing grave dirt from her elegant clothing. "Your magnetic disruption was perfectly timed with my spell."

"We make a good team." He moved closer, extending his hand to help her stand fully upright.

For a moment, relief washed over them both. They had survived. The cemetery now held only true corpses once more.

She accepted his hand, but as she rose, her expression suddenly changed. Her head tilted slightly as if listening to something, but Tyson didn't hear anything with his superhuman senses.

Her fingers tightened around his hand. "De necromancer is still here. Observing," she whispered.

He immediately raised Nexus again, scanning the misty cemetery. "Where?"

Her gaze focused on a space between two mausoleums where the shadows seemed unnaturally deep. "Dere."

From those shadows, a figure emerged with unhurried grace, moving with the confidence of someone who had nothing to fear from either of them. As she approached, he noticed how the shadows seemed to cling to her like living things, obscuring not just her features but creating blind spots in his enhanced vision. She'd been using the cemetery's darkness as camouflage, not hiding behind cover, but weaving herself into the very shadows that danced between the tombstones.

"You exceeded my expectations," the figure said, her voice carrying the kind of cultured authority that suggested centuries of education and absolute confidence in her own superiority. The accent was impossible to place, as if she'd learned English in a dozen different countries over the course of several lifetimes.

He kept Nexus raised between them and the newcomer. "Who are you?"

The figure continued forward, stopping at a respectful distance. "Someone who has been watching with great interest."

"How did you get all their bodies here?" he demanded, gesturing at the fallen corpses surrounding them.

An amused chuckle emanated from the shadows still concealing the figure's face. "Death leaves... echoes. Imprints that linger at the site of violent ends. I simply followed those echoes to their sources."

"You've been planning this for months." He stated it as fact, not a question.

"You drew my attention with the opening of House of M." The figure took another step forward. Close enough for conversation, far enough to react if attacked. "I followed the trail back from there. Every death you caused was... catalogued. Your arachnid friend on the roof and the mercenary mutants in the sewers proved unnecessary. No need to test you within your own house, neutral ground sufficed."

His unease grew with each revelation. "If you retrieved Sabertooth from Essex, you could have gotten into the graveyard at House of M and attacked us anytime."

"But that wouldn't have been a proper test, would it?" The figure's voice carried a teacher's patience. "I needed to see how YOU fight when surprised, when off-balance. Not your allies."

He snorted. "You could've just watched the replay from Times Square."

"Oh, I did. I watched it live. And through the eyes of the dead." The necromancer gestured at Magneto's fallen form, then at the cemetery around them. "This location was chosen carefully. So much death already present, so many restless spirits to mask my workings. Catching you at the right moment, since you rarely leave Manhattan now. Your friend there would appreciate the artistry involved."

She nodded reluctantly, professional respect warring with caution. "De preparation required..."

"Months of study," the figure confirmed. "Gathering specimens. Each opponent was chosen to test specific aspects. Your strength, how well you work with new allies, and emotional resilience."

He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way physical combat never made him feel. This stranger knew too much about his past, his strengths, even the dynamics between him and Calypso.

"Enough games. Who are you? What do you want?"

The figure's concealing shadows seemed to ripple, like ink in water. "Names have power, especially in places such as this." The cultured voice carried a note of amusement. "Let's say I represent... interested parties. Those who watch from places most mortals never glimpse."

She moved closer to him. "De old powers," she breathed, recognition dawning. "De ones who predate modern magic."

"Your companion understands." The figure inclined her head toward Calypso with something that might have been approval. "Your growing influence hasn't gone unnoticed, Tyson Smith. The emergence of House of M, your actions in Times Square, the alliances you've begun to forge, the paradigm shift you're causing... Powers older than your government are taking notice."

"Taking notice enough to raise an army of the dead to fight me?" he challenged.

"This was merely... an evaluation." The figure's voice softened, almost intimate in its delivery. "A test of your capabilities, your adaptability, your potential. And you've proven worthy of further attention."

"I'm not interested in your tests."

"Yet you've passed magnificently." The figure raised a hand, and the shadows around it began to shift and coalesce. "Your partnership with the voodoo priestess was particularly impressive. Unexpected alliances often yield the most interesting results."

Calypso's eyes narrowed. "De shadows," she warned. "Dey're not natural. Dis is old magic."

The figure began to dissolve, its form breaking apart like smoke in the wind. "We will meet again, Tyson Smith. When the time is right."

He lunged forward, Nexus slicing through the space where the figure had stood, but the blade met only mist. The shadows dispersed, spreading outward before dissipating entirely, leaving no trace of their visitor.

"Can you track them?" he asked her.

She shook her head, frustration evident. "De magic is too old, too refined. Dey've had centuries to perfect deir concealment. I only noticed her because she wanted to be noticed."

As they stood among the defeated zombies, his enhanced vision caught something that didn't belong, a gleam of polished stone that reflected differently than the weathered granite around it. He approached cautiously.

"That wasn't there when we arrived," she said, pointing to a small object that sat atop a nearby headstone. The obsidian chess piece, a queen, was carved with such precision that it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

"She had to place it while we were fighting," he realized. He stared at the chess piece. "She left it as a message."

"Or a signature," she added. "In de old traditions, such tokens often serve as both warning and invitation."

He turned the obsidian queen piece in his palm, trying to piece together the puzzle laid before him.

A chess piece…

He ran through his metaknowledge and quickly remembered…

A secret society of wealthy and powerful individuals who styled themselves after colonial-era aristocracy. The necromancer's cultured accent, her talk of "interested parties" and "powers older than your government."

The Hellfire Club.

The Club's inner circle used chess pieces as titles. Kings, Bishops, Knights… and Queens.

They were exactly the type of organization that would orchestrate such an elaborate test, studying him from afar before making their presence known.

His jaw clenched as he recalled what little he knew about them. He remembered an X-Men cartoon episode loosely adapted in the Days of Future Past movie. Emma Frost had been their White Queen at one point, that much he knew. But the mysterious figure was the problem. The necromantic power displayed tonight went beyond anything he knew of in Marvel.

His knowledge of the Hellfire Club's membership was limited. He knew they had branches in various major cities, including New York, but the details were hazy.

Should he draw on his metaknowledge and follow up? If he was going to investigate, Emma Frost would have to be the starting point. He knew she had to exist; he met the Cuckoos when Stryker invaded the institute, and the girls had said that they transferred to the Massachusetts Academy. The only thing he knew about that school was that Emma Frost ran it. So he had a direction. But should he follow it? Or maybe, the better question was, what game were they really playing? And why choose now to reveal themselves to him?

His best guess was from what she'd said. When House of M opened, it drew their attention. Maybe it was the celebrity. Maybe it was the wealth. But from what he knew of the Hellfire Club, both were important.

He was a candidate. They were testing him before inviting him.

But he had bigger problems. Namely, Loki's return and the Battle of New York. If the Hellfire Club wanted to send him an invitation in the meantime, he'd worry about it when it came. But they couldn't be the priority.

"We need to collect the bodies," he said finally. "I'm not letting someone else use them against us again."

She nodded, understanding immediately. "A wise precaution."

He extended his hands, calling upon his magnetic powers. The metal in Magneto's costume responded first, the body rising from where it had fallen. Next, he used the metal that Magneto had gathered to encase the remains of Sabertooth. One by one, he gathered the bodies of Kraven the Hunter and Norman Osborn.

As he worked to gather the remaining bodies, a heavy silence fell between them. He kept glancing at her, his expression troubled. Finally, he stopped.

"Calypso, I owe you an apology," he said. "When the zombies appeared, I suspected you immediately."

She paused in her work, and he could see the hurt in her face.

"You have trust issues. I understand why."

"It's not about you," he continued, moving closer. "It's about everyone who's tried to manipulate me. This necromancer proved as much." He gestured at the bodies they'd collected. "But that's not an excuse. Since that fight where we met, you've never given me reason to doubt you. You've been open and loyal, and I shouldn't have been so quick to doubt you."

"Trust is difficult to build in our world."

"I know. But we've been building it." The words came out more vulnerable than he'd intended, revealing how much her partnership had begun to mean to him.

"Remember when my potion of mental resistance wore off?" she asked. "You could have controlled me with your illusions. Instead, you chose to trust me." She turned away, looking out across the cemetery. For a long moment, she was silent, as if gathering her thoughts, or perhaps her courage. "There's something you need to understand about me," she finally said. "About why I could do what I did to my sister. I know you experienced it from my memories, but there's more to it."

He remained silent, giving her the space to continue.

"Before I killed Eloise, I performed a ritual." Her hands moved unconsciously, tracing patterns in the air as if recreating the ceremony. "I deadened my emotions, gave them away to de spirits. I couldn't have killed someone I loved otherwise. De ritual gave me incredible power with de spirits, but I lost my connection to my own spirit. Since then, I've been... empty." Her voice caught on the word. "I can feel anger, desire for power, survival instincts, even want. But love, joy, true connection? Dey're just... gone."

His expression softened with understanding. "That explains a lot about you and the way you approach things."

"It has been me for many years now. I accepted it as de price for my power. Until recently."

"What changed?" he asked, though something in his expression suggested he already suspected the answer.

"When we worked together on de ritual," she said, her voice gaining strength. "When we brought Ann Marie back... for just a moment, I felt something. A spark of what I used to be."

"A spark?" he repeated in askance, taking a step closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact.

"More than I've felt in years," she admitted. "Working with you, combining our powers... it awakened something I thought was gone forever."

"There's something else," she continued, her voice softer than he had ever heard it. "Something I've been considering since dat night. Your essence, within your blood, is so strong. Using blood magic, you could give me back a piece of what I lost." She held a hand up, already guessing his immediate rejection and objections to the idea. "It wouldn't be your emotions replacing mine, or taking control, but awakening what's still there, dormant."

"That sounds like... I don't want to change who you are. And I try not to affect people's minds unless I have to."

She shook her head firmly. "You wouldn't be controlling me or changing me. You'd be helping me become whole again. De emotions were mine originally, dey're just... sleeping." Her gaze held his, unwavering. "Like a limb dat has fallen asleep and needs circulation restored."

"How would it work? What would it do to you... to us?"

"It's like healing," she explained. "Like when you help mutants with your healing power, but for de spirit instead of de body." She moved closer, her hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching him. "Your life force is potent, vibrant. It could serve as a catalyst to reawaken or regrow what I sacrificed."

He considered her words carefully. He'd seen her work magic that defied explanation, bringing Ann Marie back from death itself. If anyone understood the boundaries between life, death, and the spirit, it was her.

"If it means you can be whole, can feel the way you're supposed to... okay." He nodded slowly, then fixed her with a serious look. "But are you sure? What if the emotions you get back include the pain you were trying to avoid?"

"Den I'll feel pain. But I'll also be able to feel everything else. To truly choose." She straightened her shoulders. "I've lived half a life for too long. I want to know what it means to be complete again."

The decision made, they moved to a clear space among the tombstones. She retrieved her bag of supplies from where she'd dropped it during the battle. The items they'd purchased earlier that day would now serve a purpose neither had anticipated when buying them.

"We'll need to prepare quickly," she said, her movements becoming more purposeful. "De veil between worlds is still thin here after all dat's happened. It will make de ritual easier."

She laid out a small cloth on a flat tombstone, arranging various items; dried herbs, small vials of liquid, a ceremonial knife with intricate carvings on its blade.

"Blood magic requires intent," she explained as she worked. "Both participants must be willing, must understand what dey're offering and receiving." She looked up at him. "Your blood carries your essence, your life force. Mine carries de echo of what I once was. Together, dey can create a bridge."

He watched her preparations with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. "Will this create a permanent connection between us?"

"Not in de way you might fear," she assured him. "It's not possession or a merging of minds. Think of it more as... jumpstarting an engine. Your energy helps restart what's dormant in me."

When everything was arranged to her satisfaction, she stood before him. "Your hand," she requested, extending her own.

He placed his large palm against hers. His hand dwarfed hers, yet both possessed strength beyond their appearance.

She took the ceremonial knife and made a small cut across her palm. Dark blood welled up. She passed the knife to him, who made a similar cut on his own palm.

They pressed their bleeding hands together, their fingers interlocking with the deliberate care of a sacred act. She began to chant. The blood between their palms grew warm first, then progressed to a heat that felt like summer sunlight concentrated between their skin. It wasn't painful. It was the heat of life recognizing life, of two spirits reaching across the space between them to touch something fundamental.

The sensation went deeper than physical. He felt something flowing from him, not being taken but freely given, like breath shared between lovers. In return, he could sense the vast emptiness in her where emotions should live, feel the dormant potential waiting to be rekindled. He felt a strange pulling sensation, not draining like when he absorbed powers, but more like a gentle current flowing between them. Her chanting intensified. The herbs on the cloth began to smoke without flame, releasing fragrant tendrils that curled around their joined hands. The smoke took on patterns, spiraling upward, forming shapes that seemed almost deliberate before dissipating into the night air.

He felt a momentary dizziness. But the feeling passed quickly, replaced by an awareness of connection, of something fundamental shared between them.

The moment their blood mingled, something fundamental shifted in the air between them. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as if her brain was suddenly trying to process colors that hadn't existed moments before. Her breathing quickened, becoming shallow and uneven as her entire nervous system awakened to sensations it had forgotten how to interpret.

The change wasn't gradual. It was a dam bursting after decades of pressure. Every emotion she'd sacrificed came rushing back at once: love, joy, guilt, shame, wonder, grief, all crashing through her consciousness like a tidal wave. She could feel his concern radiating from him like warmth from a fire, could sense his genuine affection for her wrapping around her mind like a protective embrace. But she could also feel, with devastating clarity, every terrible thing she'd done while emotionally empty.

"Tyson," she gasped, her fingers tightening around his with sudden desperation. "I can't... It's too much..."

Her knees buckled. He caught her, lowering them both to the ground among the tombstones. Her entire body trembled violently against his, her face contorting through expressions he'd never seen her wear. Horror and grief were cycling so rapidly that it seemed her features couldn't settle on any single emotion.

"Breathe," he urged, holding her steady. "Focus on my voice."

Tears streamed freely down her face now, not the controlled weeping of moments before but raw, unfiltered sobs that shook her entire frame. She looked up at him with an expression of pure wonder.

"I can feel... everything," she whispered, her voice breaking. "De way de moonlight looks on your skin, de warmth in your voice..." Her expression crumpled. "But also de pain I caused. Eloise... my sister. I can feel how much I loved her, and what I destroyed."

Her hands clutched at her chest as if trying to contain the emotional storm raging within. "She trusted me. She loved me. And I took everything from her for power." A keening sound escaped her throat, primal and wounded. "I remember playing with her as children, braiding her hair, promising to protect her always."

He held her closer, providing an anchor as she weathered the emotional deluge.

"And Kraven's wife," she continued, her voice hollow with horror. "I broke apart a family. I seduced a married man, and felt nothing when his wife suffered. I was so empty inside, I couldn't feel de wrongness of it." Her gaze, wet with tears, found his. "But now... Mon Dieu, what kind of person was I?"

His hand moved to her face, gently wiping away tears that were immediately replaced by fresh ones.

"You were someone in pain, who made terrible choices to survive," he said softly. "But you're not that person anymore."

She shook her head, not in disagreement but in wonder at his words.

"I can feel guilt, but also... hope." Her voice strengthened slightly. She pressed a hand to her heart. "It's like colors returning to a world I've seen only in shades of gray for so long. Even de pain feels... necessary. Real."

"I never understood what I sacrificed," she whispered. "I thought power was worth any price. But feeling this now..." She looked around at the tombstones surrounding them. "All these people lived and loved and felt everything I gave away. Even in death, they had more life in them than I did."

He remained silent, giving her space to process the emotional restoration. His presence was steady, grounding, as she navigated feelings that must have seemed foreign after so long without them.

"It's strange," she said after several minutes had passed. "I can feel your concern for me. Not just see it or understand it, but feel it." She looked up at him with wonder. "Is this what connection truly is? This awareness of another person?"

He shook his head slowly.

"I feel you," she said, her voice filled with amazement. "Not just physically, but..." She gestured vaguely between them. "There's something linking us now. I can sense your emotions, just at the edges of my awareness."

He realized she was right. Beyond his own feelings, he could sense echoes of hers. The overwhelming nature of her emotional resurrection, the guilt threatening to drown her, but also a fragile hope was taking root. It was the opposite of his power absorption; instead of taking something, he'd given part of himself away, creating a bridge that flowed both directions.

"Is this permanent?" he asked, though he found he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted it to be or not.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Blood connections usually fade over time unless renewed." She met his gaze. "Does it bother you?"

"No," he said, surprising himself with the certainty. "It feels... right."

"The ritual," he said. "It created more than we expected."

"A bond," she confirmed. "Not control, not possession, but awareness. I didn't anticipate this. But I'm not sorry for it."

They sat together among the graves, her hand still in his, blood dried between their palms, but the connection hadn't faded.

She took a deep, steadying breath. "Now I need to learn to live with feeling again. All of it. De joy and de pain." Her eyes, still wet but clearer now, met his. "And I make amends where I can."

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, both processing what had just happened. The bond between them remained, not intrusive, but present, like background music at the edge of hearing. Something profound had shifted, not just her emotional rebirth, but the entire dynamic between them.

He found himself hyperaware of her emotional state through their connection. The lingering traces of overwhelming joy mixed with guilt, the wonder at feeling so much after so long, and underneath it all, a growing sense of completeness he suspected she hadn't felt in decades.

Finally, she wiped the last tears from her face, her breathing steady for the first time in what felt like hours. The emotional storm had passed, leaving behind a raw awareness of everything around her.

"We should go," she said, her voice hoarse from crying. "I have an apartment in Queens. I haven't been there since joining you at de House, but it's paid through de year. We need time to talk, to understand what's happened between us."

"We probably shouldn't head back right away. No need to connect anything that happened here with House of M, and if that necromancer is still around, we don't need to bring her home with us." He gestured to the collected bodies. "But first, we need to deal with them."

Standing, he extended his hands, calling upon his magnetic powers. The gathered iron and steel responded. He carved a deep trench into the ground, the dirt rising and settling in neat piles beside it. The metal he'd gathered around the bodies of Magneto, Sabretooth, Kraven, and Norman Osborne responded to his will; he lowered them into the improvised grave.

"I'll mark de location," she said, drawing symbols in the air. "So we can find dem again if needed."

He sealed the grave, compressing the metal into a solid mass that would resist any attempt at disturbance, at least for the night.

His motorcycle waited where they'd left it. He mounted first; she climbed on behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist.

"Which way?" he asked.

"Take Queens Boulevard," she directed. "I'll guide you from there."

As they pulled away from Calvary Cemetery, leaving behind the graves of the dead, he couldn't shake the feeling that tonight had been more beginning than ending. The Black Queen in his pocket was a reminder that somewhere in the city, eyes were still watching. It seemed the opening moves had been made to whatever game he'd just been invited to play.