Spirit Quest Chapter 8: The Sacrifice by DreamWeaver
Author's note #1: Although SPIRIT QUEST is a sequel to SHADOW MAN in which Logan's trip to Alkali Lake pits him against Magneto, Mystique and Toad, it is an independent story in its own right.
Author's note #2: Hey, if Marvel first says Logan has blue eyes, then in Ultimate X they're black, I can have them green here for the purpose of the story to make them more unusual and distinctive.
Again the bottomless black eyes pinned him, but this time Logan was too stunned by what he'd just promised to feel their impact. He slowly drew himself together, straightened his spine, and glowered back, jaw locked, fists clenched on his knees. At last Grandfather nodded, rose, approached with drawn knife.
So that's how it's going to end, eh? Knife -- Logan lifted his chin, lips pressed tight, but his eyes were less well controlled. During his truncated life of the last fifteen years he'd fought a lot, been hurt plenty, was even almost killed a couple of times, but never had he just tamely sat like now and waited for death to take him.
He felt the knife point move across his throat to where the artery pulsed, felt the prick-prick-prick of the tip against his skin. If he lost a lot of blood, lost it fast, he thought there was a good chance the healing factor wouldn't have time to kick in and compensate. A messy way to go but fairly painless he supposed. He'd find out soon enough. He swallowed and at the movement the point dug in sharply.
Metal clicked against metal. Something tugged on his neck. The knife appeared before his eyes and caught on its point was the chain of his dog tags. Rogue had given them back when he returned from Alkali Lake. Logan automatically hooked his fingers through the loop, held it fast.
"That's mine, bub!" His voice sounded rough and harsh, squeezed out of his constricted throat.
"Take it off, please."
"What for?"
"It carries your spirit animal and must go into the medicine bundle with a tuft of your hair."
Logan closed his fist around the chain, gave an ugly grin. "Fifteen years ago I came into this lousy world with the damn thing hanging around my neck. I'll go out the same way, thanks. You can have it after you cut my throat, old man!"
Grandfather drew back, studied him with those fathomless eyes. "It is not I who gives you death. That you must find in the spirit world."
He heard the words, tried to understand them, comprehended only that for some reason he wasn't to be killed. Yet. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, using bluster to hide his relief at this temporary reprieve. "I thought only dead people are in your spirit world!"
"Kia is not dead, yet she is there. You must find her, send her back as you vowed."
Logan studied the woman. As far as he could tell she appeared the same as when he had carried her in, maybe a little paler, a little grayer, or maybe it was the damn smoke that made her look washed out.
"So how do I get to this spirit world?"
"I will help you. Your children will help you. You do not go alone, Wolverine."
First the old guy had to have the chain, then his knife sliced off an inch or so of Logan's hair. That was followed by a lot of mumbling and muttering and tuneless chanting and tossing something on the fire that made Logan's eyes water. He then made Logan drink down a cup of some nauseous, bitter liquid before going through the same hair cutting business for each of the kids. He tied all the clumps of hair together into a little sheaf, pulled out a small leather bag and dropped the sheaf inside. Next he put in the bag a small rock or bit of mineral for each of the children -- a quartz crystal for Kevin, a little nodule of copper for Casey, Kelly got a bit of obsidian, Connor a creamy agate with a mottled grayish pattern. Lastly, Grandfather dropped in the chain with its metal tags.
Logan was finding it hard to pay attention. Whatever had been in that cup made his stomach roil and his head swim. It felt like he was being turned inside out and his vision was playing tricks on him. The curved walls now seemed to throb with his rapid heartbeat and the haze of smoke that fogged the room appeared to congeal into clouds over each of the kids. Like clouds in the sky, these gradually changed their shape until hovering over Connor was a dog-like form. Birds spread their wings over each of the twins. Even above himself, he noticed as he craned his head back, floated a godawful ugly, little beastie with the muzzle and body of a shrunken bear attached to an oversized skunk's tail. He scowled -- a wolverine. Over the baby, though, the cloud was just a roundish lump, looking pretty much like Kevin himself curled on his blanket.
"All is ready. Rise."
Logan suddenly perceived that this was the second or third time he'd heard that order and pulled his awareness back from wherever it had been to squint up at Grandfather. He got awkwardly to his feet, staggered from the sudden dizziness that action caused. To his shock he discovered that all he wore were his jeans. At some point he must have taken off the rest of his clothes for the untidy scattering of discards strewn around the blanket was his approved method for dealing with his wardrobe. Mystified by when and why he had stripped, he only gradually became conscious that the old man was painting something on his skin. A knotted finger dipped into a battered tin can, came out red, stroked down Logan's back accompanied by a drone of chanting.
His head cleared a bit then and he could feel each individual line of red tingle into life, growing longer and longer from top of shoulders to base of spine as the old man repeatedly dipped and stroked and mumbled. Now Grandfather faced him once more, muttered a few words, took Logan's right hand, poured a pool of paint in the palm. He spread it out to the fingertips, then bent the arm at the elbow, pressing the painted hand onto Logan's chest.
"This is to tell the spirits that you are a willing sacrifice."
Logan glanced down, licked suddenly dry lips. A red handprint, his own handprint, stained the skin directly over his heart like a big neon sign saying 'Strike here!'
He looked up to meet the old man's gaze and his lips drew back from his teeth in a sardonic grin. "Good idea. Don't want them spirits knocking off the wrong guy."
Something like a twinkle lightened the depths of Grandfather's eyes. He led Logan over to the fire pit, waved a fan of four gray feathers. And that casual motion drew the animal clouds to the fire where they mingled, lost their form in the plume of smoke. Now he swung the little leather bag on its cord through the smoke a few times singing and chanting all the while, then looped the cord over Logan's head. The bag rested on his breast where had lain the wolverine tags. Logan reached up with his painted hand, touched the bag, made out the familiar rectangle of a name plate through the thin leather and felt more complete.
"In this medicine bag are the spirits of you and the children," the old man was saying. "They will help you in the other world all they can, but for you alone is the battle. The bag will become heavier the closer Kia is to death," he warned. "Now you must step into the fire."
Logan jerked his head around, searched the seamed face to see if this was some kind of sick joke, but the features might have been chipped out of flint for all the softness and levity they revealed. His eyes darted around the room. The blankets on the walls stirred restlessly as he hesitated and the walls themselves seemed to be drawing closer. The kids still slept but now appeared dimmer, diminished, defenseless without their animal clouds guarding them. And Kia . . . Kia was almost translucent, the skin stretched tight against her cheekbones, her eyes darkened hollows.
Kevin stirred, got to hands and knees, started crawling toward the fire. Logan caught his overall straps, hauled him back, smoothed his downy brush of hair. "Go to sleep, bout'chou," he whispered. "It'll be alright."
And without daring to think what he was about to do, Logan gave a yell like a battle cry and leaped into the fire. A rush of searing blackness charring his flesh, a billow of lightening sparks burning holes in his lungs, a blaze of white hot air consuming all but his metal bones . . .
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