Fuck, I love the smell of woman in the morning. I ain't fed in days and the heat dries my mouth. For two weeks now I been curled inside a hotbox of a car, lookin' at nothing but orange sand. But now my eyes feast. Soon the rest of me will, too. I smile at the thought.

I can see why the runt chases her. Jean Grey, main tease of the X-geeks, jumps dunes, straddling some sort of quad, with that sexy red hair whippin' behind her in the wind. Every time she connects with the sand, her breasts bounce under a tight, white tank top. I'm gonna enjoy rippin' her flesh off that pretty frame. I'd love to save her kill to the last, savor every little scream and sob. But the trouble with telepaths is they have a nasty habit of soundin' the alarm—even if you tear out their vocal cords. No, she has to go first, quick and painless, before she even knows I'm on top of her, or her one-eyed lover'll be hot on my tail in seconds.

She pulls a sharp about-face on the quad and races back to drive over the dunes one last time. Fast as lightning, I'm after her. I sprint on all fours, sucking air through my nose so as not to growl breaths down the throat. But even I can't out-stealth a psychic. I'm 'bout a dozen paces from the rear wheel when she starts to glance over her shoulder. I lunge. My body hits the sand and I let the momentum throw me forward into the machine. We crash. Then we roll. Somewhere in the middle of our third somersault, her back passes my face in mid-air. Perfect. My left hand grabs her shoulder and my right arm slides 'round her waist. I plunge my fangs deep into her brainstem before we even hit the ground.

Finally, our bodies come to a halt, with scattered engine parts all 'round. I stand, lookin' down at my prize. It's a shame I had to give such a boring death to this beauty. Even as a corpse, she's like a wet dream. I'll have to come back and feed. Least that way, she won't be a total waste.

I hike to a small camp of five RV's jus' at sunrise, and tearin' through the first four trailers is easy. Looks like I've interrupted a good ol' Summers family reunion; among the dead're Corsair, Polaris and that twit Havok. Then I reach Cyclops' wheels. I've been waitin' to hold this man's jugular in my fist since he first cut me off the runt's trail in New York a decade ago. The flimsy door busts open with a kick and he's standin' there, waitin' for me, his hands on those pretty-boy shades. I can't help but chuckle. And then the glasses come off.

The blast from his eyes throws me on my back in the sand, and a smoking hole gapes open in my chest. With a cough, blood floods my lungs and esophagus. Poor Cyke don't know this is my favorite part of the fight. Once I taste the blood—mine or anyone else's—lust just takes over. He marches out of the trailer, but I'm already up and chargin' him. My chest still sizzling, I slash at the man over and over. His body squirts liquid iron in great heaping pools. Long after he's dead, I come to out of the high, my entire front drenched, my jaw achin' from the roar. Chest heavin', I breathe in the smell of death. A new scent tickles my nostrils. Aw, yes. I almost forgot about the kid.

I enter the trailer and immediately head to the table, where my nose tells me a small one is crouched, scared to death. I drop to my knee and look under the plank of ply wood. The girl's tiny—I'd say about six years old—and everything 'bout her is feral. Her torso is curled behind her knees, set to launch forward in full flight mode, and tears glisten behind a few red curls that hang in her face. Shakily, she raises a handgun. I laugh, and grab the thing by the scrape of its neck. I drag the puny body into the morning sand, throw it down beside the dead father and kneel down so that those big, green, teary eyes are just a couple inches from my own.

"Let's see what you've got," I growl. I've killed countless children and experience has shown, no matter what you do to them, they just can't cross that line into cold-blooded murder. A kid with a gun is no more a threat than some ankle-biting pup. I wrap my hand around the barrel of the gun and pull it to my chest. "Go ahead."

Just pull the trigger, I think softly. It's so easy. Just pull it.

Her eyes are wet with a hybrid of terror and despair, and she's grippin' that glock like her last bit of cliff edge before the plunge. This girl knows I killed everyone she loves. She knows she's next.

What're you waitin' for? It's gonna be you or me, so shift the odds in your favor. Just pull the trigger.

Her pupils are fully dilated and her brain's pulsating adrenaline and cortisol in equal measure, her little body's way of preparing for a death blow. And best of all, she's givin' me scents I haven't had in years. I lean into her collar and breathe her in.

I love a victim's chemical aroma in their last moments, and the younger the better. A kid's feelings aren't muddled by thoughts and interpretations like an adult's. What they experience, they feel, straight. Pull the trigger. Their pure, unbridled emotions are almost enough to send a mutant with enhanced senses into an orgasm—or a meltdown, dependin' on your preferences.

Come on, baby. You know you want to. Do it.

The kid is all lead (fear) and steam (survival) and acid (nausea). Without movin', she glances at her daddy's bloody face—or lack of face—and then meets my gaze again.

PULL THE GODDAMNED TRIGGER!

In a single second, she changes. She furrows her brow and drags in one deep breath. The barrel of the gun lifts from my chest and lands hard on my forehead. I catch my favorite scent of all—burnin' cold mercury. Hatred.

BANG!

For a second, my ears ring. And then it all goes blank.