Note to readers:
This was originally written six years ago, during my senior year in high school. I put up the original version just for the heck of it, because I didn't think it was good. In fact, I never finished it. But I got some surprisingly good reviews, so here's the revised story; read and enjoy! Usual disclaimers apply. The Assassins are my creation, though, and so is Cat.Chapter 1: Bloodcat
CRASH!
The sound of a metal trashcan hitting the ground caught Gambit's ear as he stood outside the bar, finishing his cigarette before heading home. He took a couple of steps to the end of the building, tossed his cigarette into a nearby puddle, then looked through the light drizzle down the alley.
"No! No, please, who are you!" came a voice, and he saw someone lying on the ground, creeping back slowly against the wall, and a menacing figure in black standing in front of him. The black-clad figure said something, and he whined, "I didn't do it, I swear I didn't!"
Gambit crept unnoticed, down the alley, in time to hear the other person say, "You did. Don't lie, you sniveling piece of scum!" He couldn't identify the voice as belonging to a man or a woman; the figure was probably using a distorter. There was a quiet ssshhhht sound of a blade being drawn, and Gambit suddenly saw bright steel gleam in the dim light from the street lamp behind him as a long sword was placed at the man's throat. He was about to step in when the sword holder spoke. "Just between us, my dear man," the sword's holder crooned. "There's no one here but me to hear. Tell me. Did you?"
"All right, all right!" the man on the ground whined. "Yeah, I did. The bitch had it coming to her! She was always complaining, always whining, so I just slit her throat! There, are you happy?"
"Yes, came that voice again, and the steel was drawn across the man's throat. The man screamed, and the steel came back bloody. Gambit watched the sword-holder take a pair of handcuffs and snap them around the man's wrists, then pull the man forcibly down the alley toward him.
He ducked back into the shadows of the building, hoping not to be seen. From what he'd just seen, whoever this guy was, he deserved what he was getting. Cutting some woman's throat…Gambit decided he wasn't going to interfere. He watched as the helpless man was cuffed to a nearby street lamp. Come daylight, he'd be picked up by whatever patrol car was passing by. Then, under the light of the street lamp, he saw the figure pull a microcassette out of a recorder clipped to his belt, tuck it into a case, and put the case into the man's pocket. "That cassette better not get lost," said the sword wielder. "Make sure you show it to the police when they come to get you."
"You're not going to leave me here all night!" the man whined, his voice rising in panic. "My throat's bleeding! I'll die!"
"Do you want to die?" the figure hissed, his face only inches from the man's. "I didn't cut you deep enough to kill you, but I can if you push me. It will stop. The worst you'll have is a scar. Not like her, is it? She'll never live to see her children grow up because you killed her. And she was the mother of your children, too! Think about that every time you look into a mirror and see that scar." The figure turned and was gone in an instant, moving so fast that Gambit almost didn't see him leave.
He detached himself from the shadows, and sprinted for his motorcycle, getting on it as he saw another motorcycle speed out of another alley just ahead of him. He grinned as he revved up the engine. This was going to be fun.
The two motorcycles roared down the nearly deserted street. At some point, the rider ahead of Gambit turned and looked behind him, and saw he was being pursued. The other increased his speed. Gambit followed suit.
They performed a skillful game of tag, in and out of streets and alleys, winding ever further downtown. They got to a section Gambit knew well; he tuned down an alley so narrow only a motorcycle could have got through it, and made a sharp left, braking to a stop in the middle of a narrow one-way street. He sat and waited, lighting a cigarette. Sure enough, a minute later, the mysterious cyclist turned the corner and skidded to a stop as his headlights picked up Gambit's bike blocking his way.
"Going somewhere, homme?" Gambit said.
The figure got off the cycle and drew his sword as he stepped forward. Gambit held up a hand. "Whoa dere, I ain't here lookin' for a fight," he said.
The sword lowered. "Then why are you following me?"
"Wanta know what you're doin' here," Gambit said. "I saw you take out dat little scum bag back dere," and he jerked a thumb back somewhere behind him, even though he had no idea which direction the handcuffed man probably was. "Jus' curious. Who are you, an' what are you doin'?"
The figure's eyes narrowed. "I don't see where it's your business," he snarled. "Get out of my way."
"Not till you answer my question, frien'," Gambit responded.
The swordsman sheathed his sword, made a sound of disgust, and jumped onto his bike. "Stay out of my way!" he called as his bike did a hard 180 and sped off the way it came. Gambit hopped on his and followed at a discreet distance, staying out of sight this time.
About ten minutes later, he saw the bike's owner park it in a parking garage for a slightly upscale complex not far from where the handcuffed man was waiting for the cops. Gambit hid a grin, parked his own bike beside the other one, and climbed the fire escape after the other cyclist, watching as he climbed into a third floor apartment. He hunkered down outside, on the fire escape, and peeked cautiously in.
Catryne Steel sighed as she pulled the black scarf holding the distorter over her mouth off, revealing full, sensuous lips. A moment later, the black wrapping around her head came off, and she unpinned her hair, letting the thick auburn waves cascade around her shoulders. "I really should dye it black," she said to herself, looking in the tall mirror hanging across the back of her couch. "Less noticeable."
She stripped off the black shirt she wore, tossed it onto the couch, then reached around her side for the end to the long Ace bandage wrapped tightly around her breasts. She gave a huge sigh of relief as it came free, and she wound it carefully back up as it came free of her chest. She rubbed the throbbing flesh for a minute, examining the marks left on the pale skin, then put the shirt back on, stripped off her skin-tight black pants and undid the bandage around her waist. "Maybe I should stop trying to look like a guy," she groaned as she massaged the marks left on her skin from the tight wrappings. "But then again, who'd take me seriously if I didn't?"
She crossed the room, clad in nothing but the T-shirt and a pair of plain black briefs, and went to her desk. Taking a small gold key from her neck, she inserted it into a padlock on a small door under her desk, and opened it. Taking out a black book, she opened it as she sat down, scribbled a note in it, and put the book back. She reached for the phone next, dialed a number, and let it ring. When someone answered, she pulled the distorter in front of her mouth and said. "It's done. The police will find him in the morning with the confession. When do I receive the payment?"
She listened to the phone for a moment, then said, "If I had my way he would have been found dead, and I wouldn't have had to wait until it hits the news. But all right, I will wait until he's convicted." Silence for a moment, then she said, "He was a whining pathetic fool. He admitted right away. I didn't have to hurt him. But I left the souvenir on his neck just as you asked." Her voice softened a bit as she said, "Out of respect for your loss, Mr. Marsden, I will reduce my fee. Ten thousand only." She listened for a moment, then nodded. "Right. We will expect the payment in the account we discussed by the end of the week." She hung up, and leaned back in her chair for a moment, eyes closed.
Out on the fire escape, Gambit settled back on his heels, letting out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. She was gorgeous. He wondered how he could have missed noticing she was a woman. She didn't move like a man, talk like a man, and from here she sure as hell didn't look like a man! He wanted so much to be able to run his hands up the firm, smooth legs, to the nicely tucked-in waist, to those nice soft breasts… He almost groaned at the memory of that body coming out of the clothes she'd wrapped herself in. Who the hell was she?
He peeked back in. He couldn't see her. Where was she? He poked his head out a little further, scanning what he could see, and then he quietly slipped up the window sash and climbed into the apartment. It was nicely but sparsely furnished. A couch, upholstered in a neutral beige; the large mirror, in a gilded frame; a TV/DVD combo, receiver and stereo system with impressive speakers filled a dark wood entertainment center. He slipped into the kitchen. It was almost obsessively neat. No dishes sat in the sink. He heard a sudden soft noise from behind him, and whirled.
He gasped in pain as a sharp silver blade slashed open his bicep. He looked up, into a pair of blue eyes that glittered in fury. "What the hell are you doing in here?" hissed the woman in front of him. He couldn't answer for a moment; she had obviously just been getting into a bath, and her long legs were dripping wet. It took a moment to find his voice. "Lookin' fer you, p'tite."
She wanted to smile. Best way to keep a man off guard was to show him a pretty woman. She noticed the well-toned physique, and smiled to herself. Keep her off guard by showing her a fine-looking man. She didn't show any of that amusement as her eyes narrowed. "Really," she said, but the sword didn't waver. "Why?"
"Curious," he sucked in a breath as the slash on his arm began to drip blood on the clean white tile of the kitchen floor. She held the sword in one hand as she inched over to a bank of drawers and pulled out a towel. She threw it to him. "Clean yourself up, Cajun."
"How'd you know?" he asked in surprise.
She didn't blink. "Lived down in the bayous myself, once," she said. "Now let's start over, Cajun, and the truth this time. What the hell are you doing in my apartment? And how much did you hear?" The sword didn't waver.
"I followed you here 'cause I was curious, not'in' more," Gambit said. The cut on his arm was rapidly staining the towel red. He tried to focus on the conversation, not the pain. "I heard you on de phone wit' your client," he said finally, deciding to be truthful. "An' don' worry, p'tite, your secret be safe wit' me. Remy got his own secrets, too."
"What secret?" Boy, was she tough. She wasn't going to let up on him anytime soon.
"Yer a merc," he said. "You take out yer targets fer money. But from what I seen, you got a conscience too. Ya care 'bout de people you be avengin'." Before she could say anything, he said, "Now I got a question for you. What's yer name?"
Her mouth twitched, as if she were trying not to smile. "You got your own secrets, too? So tell me." At his wary look, she laughed out loud, a musical, melodic sound that made his blood heat up. Her voice had a deep, husky quality that was doing things to his libido. As was her current state of undress. 'If you have one of my secrets, Cajun, then I should have one of yours. You tell anyone about me, I tell them about you. It's fair."
He thought about that with his teeth gritted for a while, then said, "I'm one of de X-Men. You know, de outlaws you hear 'bout on de tube."
Her eyes went wide. "Oh, my. I have one of the X-Men bleeding on my floor?" she sheathed the sword in its scabbard, lying across the back of a chair, and scrambled to his side. She had heard about the X-Men. It was hard not to, with their names all over the news. She had the utmost respect for them; they were a tough, well-trained, flawless team, working for a city that mostly didn't even want them around.
She vanished back into the bathroom, coming out shortly with a first-aid kit. "I'm sorry," she said remorsefully, as she got another towel, dampened it at the sink, and wiped the blood from his arm. "Come on," she said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Let's get this off you." She pulled his dark green T-shirt off him. Underneath, his torso was impressively muscled, and she couldn't help looking appreciatively at the firm muscles under the smooth skin. A few scars here and there marred the perfection, but overall he was a fine specimen of man.
She pushed aside her own thoughts and concentrated on caring for the man. She had cut him much deeper than she intended to, and the blood wasn't going to stop without a fight. As good a shape as he was in, she didn't think he was going to be able to stand losing any more blood. Already she could see his eyes going vaguely unfocused as blood loss began to take its toll. She pressed a wad of gauze to his arm until the bleeding slowed, then stopped, and then she bandaged it tightly.
"P'tite?" he said, his eyes unfocused.
"Yes?" she said, cleaning blood off the rest of his skin.
"Don' think…I'm goin' to make it home…" and he suddenly keeled over, unconscious. She checked to see if he was breathing, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You were drinking," she said accusingly to the unconscious man, shaking a finger at him. After a moment she bent over, and got her arm under his. "Come on, Cajun, into bed," she grunted as she half-dragged, half carried him into her own room, depositing him on her bed. She pulled off his boots and socks, set them neatly on the floor beside her bed, and pulled the blanket up over his broad chest. Then she tiptoed quietly to her dresser, retrieved a tank top, underclothing, and a pair of boxers, and tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door quietly. She stepped back into her bath, yelping as the now-cold water hit her bare skin. She didn't want to drain the tub and wait for it to fill again, so she washed quickly, dried, and got into her nightclothes. She popped a blanket out of the closet, grabbed a spare pillow, and, exhausted, dropped onto her couch for some sleep. Just a few hours, she told herself as her eyes closed.
Gambit woke slowly, blinking at the sunlight streaming in the window. He yawned, then stared at the blanket. Gray. He didn't have gray sheets. He looked up in puzzlement, and saw himself reflected in the mirror over the dresser across the room. It all came back in a rush. He must have passed out while the woman was bandaging his arm, because he sure didn't remember getting into bed.
He got up, tiptoeing on bare feet out of the bedroom to the living room. She was there, on the couch, asleep. The blanket that covered her lay in a heap on the floor, and he could see goosebumps on her skin. As quietly as he could, he picked up the blanket and draped it over her again. A small sound stopped him. "No," she was whispering, "no, no, no, please, not them, no…" A tear trickled down her cheek, and she turned restlessly, dislodging the blanket again. He thought about waking her, decided dryly that he didn't want to get hurt again, and instead went to her kitchen. Coffee was next on his list of things he wanted, and he rummaged quietly in her cupboards until he found a can of Folgers Dark Roast. He smiled appreciatively. She was his kind of woman. He made some for himself, unsure how strong she liked hers, and drank his black as he waited for her to wake. In the silence of the apartment, he winced at the pain in her voice.
"No, please. I want out. Let me go. I've done this for you long enough. I want to go home." Such longing, such sadness, in her voice. "Please, I'm tired of all the killing. I want to go home." She lapsed into silence for a while, then she turned over suddenly. "No! No, let me go, you're hurting me, okay, I'll fill my contract, please, I can't bear it anymore…"
She started to claw at her blankets, shrieking, and Gambit had enough. He grasped her flailing hands firmly, and said soothingly, ""P'tite, wake up. Its over, wake up. C'mon. Open your eyes, chere…" And finally she did, and he was shaken by the depths of pain and anguish in their endless blue depths. He hugged her close, making soft comforting sounds. She tried to pull away, but he just held her closer, until her body stopped shaking. Only then did he let her go. "Wan' to talk 'bout it, chere?"
"No," she said shortly, getting up off the couch. The bathroom door slammed after her.
He wandered back into the kitchen, looked at the pot of coffee. After a night like that, she'd really need a strong cup. He reset the coffeemaker to brew another pot of strong black coffee, then opened the refrigerator and started to pull out fixings for breakfast. By the time she came out of the bathroom, he had eggs and a spicy fried rice waiting for her. She poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down silently at the kitchen table, and accepted with a mumbled 'thanks' the plate he set in front of her. With the first bite though, she said, surprised, "This is good."
"T'ank you," he said. They ate in silence for a while. He didn't say anything until they finished breakfast and she was doing the dishes. Then he said, "Sometime it help to talk 'bout t'ings, chere."
"Then let's talk about your arm," she said. "How's it feel?" She stared at him again, with those incredible blue eyes of hers, and he decided that if she didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't push it. He looked at the bandage, surprised. "I didn't even t'ink 'bout it, chere."
She grinned, but there was a strained look around her eyes. "Okay, I guess you're healed. I got some stuff I have to do today, and I'm already late, so if you don't mind…"
"Don' min' at all, chere," he said, retrieving his boots and socks from her bedroom. "Remy got one question, though."
"Is that your name? Remy?" she said.
"Oui, chere. Remy LeBeau." Busy tying up his boot, he didn't see the start of surprise she gave at the mention of his name. "An' you?"
She smiled at him, but her face had an odd sort of expression, and he sensed the change in the air as he looked up. "I'm known as Bloodcat on the street," she said.
He waited. She said nothing. Remy got the message. "So you not goin' to tell me your real name," he said. She shook her head.
"Okay. Suit me fine for now. Do I get t' ask you again at a later date?" he said, deliberately stepping into her personal space. For a moment he thought she was going to back off, then she stepped up to him. He felt the intoxicating closeness of her body, and his began to react. He took a deep breath of her shampoo, the dark chestnut locks still damp from her morning shower, and smelled jasmine and roses.
"Are you asking me out on a date?" she blinked.
He grinned, swept her hand up in his own, and kissed the back of it. "Oui, chere. Remy wan' to know if you wan' him to pick you up at eight tonight."
"I don't think so," she said.
Gambit left her apartment, thinking quite hard. Tough girl, she was. He still didn't know what had happened; she had been pleasant until he mentioned his name. Then…nothing. It was as if she'd brought a brick wall down between them.
"Well, de cards be down, chere," he said. "an' Remy be up to de challenge. Bring it on."
