Prologue

By Ally Haert

"I don't like this Jean, something's wrong," Clemente murmured for the third time. His dark eyes made another circuit of the room and he shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. "We should have-"

"Ta gueule," Jean-Luc didn't even spare a glance over his shoulder, utterly focused on picking the lock in his hands.

His fingers twitched gracefully through delicate taps and soft nudges, guiding the tumblers into place. It was taking him much longer than it should have. The old man switched out the lock, Jean-Luc thought with a grimace.

Damn this job to hell, it had been nothing but bad luck from the start. Flat tires, rotating guards, paranoid millionaires. The lock changing on the day of the heist, though, that was worse than mere luck. Much worse. If the lock had been replaced it could only mean one thing – someone knew they were coming.

Jean-Luc pursed his lips and ignored the drop of sweat that dripped a slow path down his brow.

"-should have left once we noticed the guards were swapped out," Clemente finished darkly. "Everything about this job has been wrong from the start. Every fucking part of it. What the hell is taking so long?"

A shadow fell across the face of the lock as Clemente leaned down for a better look. Jean-Luc was about to turn around and snap at him to get back on lookout when a deafening bang cut him short.

Broken glass exploded out from the window above their heads, showering down in a spray of glittering debris. Jean-Luc instantly dropped to the floor, hands coming up to cover his head as he rolled until his back faced the wall. He cringed, waiting for the spray of bullets to rain down...but the room was silent.

He cautiously raised his head and what he saw made his stomach drop out in terror.

"Clemente!" His brother lay motionless on the floor where he had been standing moments earlier. "Clemente! Clemente!"

"Unh," Clemente rolled over with a groan, finally a sign of life. Jean-Luc's relief was short lived when blood started pouring out of the hole in Clemente's chest.

"No, no, no," Jean-Luc scrambled over and desperately tried to stem the flow with trembling hands, but it was futile. Blood gushed between his fingers in warm spurts to pool on the floor between them. Clemente's eyes were so wide they had a full ring of white round the rim and the look he sent Jean-Luc was brimming with terror.

"Jean."

"Don't talk! We've got to- to-"

"Jean."

"Help! Someone help us!"

"The red...horse..."

"HELP!" Jean-Luc roared at the sound of swiftly approaching people. When the door handle turned and a large woman in uniform burst through, Jean-Luc began crying in earnest. "Help us, please!"

"What are you– How did you get in here?!"

"He's been shot, please," he begged.

Her eyes widened in shock as the situation sank in. Without another question she turned and ran back out the door, screaming for help. A weak hand wrapped around his wrist and Jean-Luc looked back down into his brother's pale face.

"It's in...the red...horse..."

"Clemente enough! Help is coming," he was sobbing now and he couldn't stop.

"Tell her...tell her..."

The hand around his wrist went limp and dropped into the puddle of blood with a sickening splash.

"Clemente? Clemente! Clemente!"

When help returned they found him curled around his brother's body, his wretched sobs muffled in the dead man's shoulder.

No one moved them, no one spoke and in that quiet moment Jean-Luc learned a simple truth.

One of the hardest parts about Death is how suddenly it comes.

~-/-~

Jean-Luc stood next to his father in a black suit and watched as the casket was interred in the family mausoleum. When the door was sealed with a final thud, his father reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

People filtered away and left the two men to their grief.

With a small sound and a final pat on the back, even his father left.

Jean-Luc stared at the crypt with unfocused eyes and wondered if it would always feel like this.

Alone.

~-/-~

He didn't think of Clemente's last words until almost a full year later.

Times had not been kind to the Thieves, with the loss of one of the Patriarch's sons and the fact that the rival clans had been discontent.

Marcel LeBeau, leader of the Thieves and father to Jean-Luc and the late Clemente, had been a fearsome crime lord in his youth. He had carried New Orleans through the Great Depression, through prohibition and through three wars. His name alone had driven away all thought of competition.

New Orleans was changing, growing bigger by the day. Things could get bad anywhere in the world but here in this city, life seemed to prosper under Marcel's watchful eye. But these weren't the days of Marcel's youth and, eventually, even his reputation couldn't dampen the temptation of The Big Easy.

Nobody was really sure exactly when the Assassins came, but by the start of the War in 'Nam it was clear they were in New Orleans to stay.

Jean-Luc seethed with bitter rage. Why hadn't his father done anything to repel the Assassins before now? If he had just taken the threat more seriously they wouldn't be locked in this damned turf war.

He'd told his father in so many words and the shouting match that resulted had been truly magnificent. Jean-Luc stormed down the hall when he couldn't stand it any longer, cursing as he went.

He slammed one final door and was shocked to find himself standing in Clemente's room.

"Putain," he froze. It was jarring to be standing here, after so much time had passed. A wave of grief gripped his chest, fresh and painful.

It looked exactly the same, as if Clemente just nipped out for a bite to eat and could stroll back through the door at any moment. He had done that a lot more near the end – late nights out on the town without any of the family.

Jean-Luc meandered forward, eyes roaming hungrily around the room. He carefully lowered himself onto the bed and sighed. A flash of colour on the bedside table caught his eye. He looked over and what he saw there made him freeze.

A small figurine. A small, red figurine.

A red horse.

He lifted it with numb fingers as Clemente's last words ran through his mind. He turned it over a few times before the light caught on the faintest of seams around the horse's middle. Jean-Luc fiddled with it for a moment, twisting it gently until the horse slipped open with a soft pop.

Inside was a yellowed piece of paper with an address on it.

~-/-~

Clemente had a wife.

He had a wife in a sweet little cottage.

Jean-Luc watched her from the shade of a neighbour's porch and tried not to vomit.

She was a delicate looking thing with perfect blonde curls and sad eyes. He waited until she left her home.

He broke in.

~-/-~

Her name was Marie.

He ran his hands over her blouses and nearly cried when he found a pair of Clemente's old boots still resting in her closet.

All over her house his brother's things remained.

She hadn't put them away.

Jean-Luc opened a final door and the blood froze in his veins. A nursery.

He fled.

~-/-~

"Smile, Jean, you look fit to murder someone," Marcel murmured out of the corner of his mouth. He raised the champagne glass to his lips and caught the eye of two young ladies across the way.

He grinned charmingly at them and they tittered and waved coyly back.

"I will murder someone if he keeps us waiting any longer," Jean-Luc snarled. "What the hell is he playing at?"

"Calm yourself, boy," Marcel frowned when the young ladies picked up on Jean-Luc's mood and shuffled nervously away. "It's all posturing. Walk into this one angry and you'll be robbed blind. Remember rule ten: 'Always stay calm on a'-"

"Why are we even here?" Jean-Luc rounded on his father, unable to contain it any longer. "Why the fuck did you even agree to this meeting? Those conards killed Clemente! We should– "

"Enough!" Marcel cut him off with a growl. "Do. Not. Cause. A. Scene."

Jean-Luc bit his cheek, vibrating with suppressed rage. People were shooting the two curious glances. Marcel let out a soft puff of breath and smiled at the onlookers before lowering his voice even further.

"Boudreaux invited us here after months of negotiating. This Krewe Ball is neutral ground and I will not see you ruin our first real chance at a treaty with the Assassins because of your childish vendetta. Now," Marcel turned cold eyes on Jean-Luc and raised his voice just enough for others around them to hear. "Go find a nice girl and enjoy the open bar."

Marcel strolled away, leaving a stunned Jean-Luc behind.

Childish vendetta? Childish vendetta?!

Jean-Luc balled his fists in rage and he got one step toward his father's retreating back before a hand reached out to grab him.

"Fuck off!" Jean-Luc shook the hand off and whirled around angrily, ready for a fight. He jerked to a stop awkwardly when he met the empty gaze of a blind girl.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Uh," Jean-Luc looked over his shoulder but he couldn't see his father anywhere. The ballroom was growing more crowded by the hour, vibrant dresses and gay masks adorning each new person that arrived. He cursed in frustration and turned back to the girl with a frown. "Look, petite, I don't have –"

"He won't listen. Not right now, at least," her voice was deep and husky. Her milky eyes gazed off somewhere over Jean-Luc's shoulder and he shook off the unsettling notion that she was looking towards Marcel.

"Cheré, you don't know me and you sure as hell don't know what-"

"Did you find the red horse yet?"

Jean-Luc could feel his heart stop.

The orchestra swelled and around the two, couples began pairing off to dance.

Jean-Luc stood frozen in place, unable to breath.

"Wh...what?"

"Ah, so that's already happened," she nodded to herself, face set in a grim expression. "Well, it's not too late yet. It'll just be a bit more difficult for you now."

"What did you say?" Jean-Luc could feel his heart kick into a racing gallop. His hands jerked out to grip her by the shoulders and blood started pounding in his ears.

He hadn't told anyone about the red horse figurine. No one.

"There isn't much time, LeBeau, so pay attention. You will be the new Father of the Thieves within the week and unless you find the child, you and your entire family are going to be wiped out in the coming war."

"Who told you about the horse?"

"The child will lead the Thieves into victory. You need that child or all will be lost. The weapon, the school, the army...it will all come after. But none of it will come without the child."

"The child? What the hell are you talking about? Who the fuck are you?" Jean-Luc shook her shoulders in growing rage.

"The child has the Eyes of the Devil and will walk the middle path. If you want to find the child, look for the eyes. You'll know it when you see it."

"You're insane," he shoved her away in bitter disgust. "Fuck off."

"This isn't about your nephew."

Jean-Luc lunged for her throat and lifted. She grabbed at his wrists with a startled cry and scrambled for purchase against the floor with the tips of her toes. Jean-Luc marched her backwards through a startled crowd, completely uncaring of the scene he was causing.

He reached the back wall and threw her at it, so that she would have lost her balance and fell. His hands whipped out to grab her roughly by the upper arms and he held her up. His face was inches from hers and when he finally spoke his voice dripped with death.

"You have ten seconds to convince me not to kill you."

"I'm trying to help you!" her voice rose shrilly. Jean-Luc snarled.

"How do you know about Etienne? Are you with the Assassins? Is this some stupid fucking way of threatening me?" he could feel his anger grow by the second. This was just like the Assassins, those honourless vermin. "Who told you about my nephew?"

"We don't have time for this, please! You need to listen to me LeBeau! Our lives are in danger and it all comes back to this point. You must find the child!"

"'Our' lives? Who the fuck are you with, lady?"

"I can't," her voice wobbled a bit and she started to look genuinely scared for the first time since they had started talking. "That's not my story to tell. Not yet. Look, please, I don't want to hurt anyone. I'm trying to help you."

Jean-Luc almost turned at the sound of Marcel calling his name. He watched the woman as tears gathered in her eyes and her breathing started to speed up. Begrudgingly he leaned back a bit and she seemed to let out a shaky breath of relief.

"Talk," he ordered.

"You must find the child with the Eyes of the Devil and you must raise it as your own. Do this, and the Thieves will survive. Fail to do this, and we all will die. And that's not a threat – that's a promise."

Jean-Luc couldn't get a read on her and it was starting to make him nervous.

"Petite...I think you've had too much to drink," his voice was shaky and low. He ignored his Father's call once more, though Marcel's voice had drawn a good deal closer.

"I know you will need proof and I'm sorry, so sorry, but it's only going to cause you pain," she reached out to touch his chest with a soft brush of her fingertips. "Tonight you will watch as the snake eats the fox. In that hour you'll understand another truth about death."

Marcel's voice was just behind them now. Jean-Luc couldn't begin to process what this crazy girl was saying, but something in her garbled message must have been getting through because a pit of dread was starting to settle deep in his chest.

"And what truth would that be?"

"That one of the hardest things about Death is how preventable it can be," her face fell and the tears began slow tracks down her cheeks.

A large hand fell on Jean-Luc's shoulder, gripping him tightly.

"Pardon us, cheré, but I must take your gentleman away! We have business to attend to I'm afraid. Jean, say your farewells for the evening."

Jean-Luc let his hands drop and took a trembling step away from the girl. The moment she was released she fled with a whimper.

Marcel watched her go with a frown.

"Jean?"

"Yes, father?" Jean-Luc stared at the spot where the girl had disappeared into the crowd and tried to ignore how the hand on his shoulder felt heavy and rough.

"I take it back. Don't bother any more ladies tonight."

~-/-~

Raymond Boudreaux was a proper Southern gentleman.

He wore long suits in fine imported silks and talked with a charming Georgian drawl. His moustache was curled into a tidy point and the blonde hair upon his head was always carefully combed into place. Despite the fact that his stride was perfect, he walked everywhere with a dark, wooden a cane. Atop the cane was a golden snake head with diamonds for eyes. From his pocket hung a watch on a long, golden chain.

He didn't look like the reigning father of the world's deadliest criminal gang. That was entirely the point.

Jean-Luc would have refused these peace talks point blank. Marcel was going soft.

The Thieves had been Lords of New Orleans long before Raymond fucking Boudreaux had ever turned a stray thought to the city and poisoned its ranks with his Assassins.

Jean-Luc refused to shake the man's hand and ignored the warning look Marcel shot him.

They sat around a tea table on a private balcony somewhere far away from the boisterous crowds. Frogs croaked loudly in the gardens down below and Jean-Luc poured every ounce of his self-control into not launching across the table to beat the man with his bare hands.

"You're looking well, Marcel."

"Not at all, Ray, not at all. It's just this wonderful streak of sunshine we've been having..."

Jean-Luc turned away from the conversation in disgust.

In his mind he pictured two milky eyes and the dire warning of the girl who owned them.

Negotiations moved swiftly. After a certain point, maps were brought and territories were plotted out. There were rules and articles that were quibbled over, yet both Patriarchs remained pointedly silent on their terms.

Jean-Luc watched lightning bugs blinking lazily across the fields below and he suddenly couldn't stand it. It was such bullshit, all of it.

This empty building filled with meaningless, simpering crowds dressed in gaudy costumes. These two men sipping tea at a table and pretending to be friends.

Everything was a lie. Everything was shallow.

He stood up in disgust, unable to bear it a moment longer.

"Going somewhere, Mr LeBeau?" Raymond looked politely interested and Jean-Luc wanted to reach over the table and smack him.

"Ah, my son has been in the drink I'm afraid. But no worries, I will see him safely home. Enjoy the rest of the ball, Raymond," Marcel stood as well, sketching a polite bow towards the other man.

Jean-Luc was already threading his way back through the ballroom floor when his father caught up to him. Without a word, Marcel grabbed him solidly by the upper arm and steered him towards the grand staircase.

They strode down the marble steps in silence and before they had even properly reached the curb, a long, sleek car pulled round in front of them. The driver hopped out and helped them in.

The moment the doors shut Marcel turned on Jean-Luc with a growl, "Just what the hell was that, Jean? I expect more than that from you. Fuck!" He blew the last word out explosively and seemed to collapse back against his seat, his anger spent before it really started.

That niggling voice in the back of Jean-Luc's head started up. He had missed something.

"You're damned lucky we were done with our business, boy, because I've had about as much of your rebellion as I can take," Marcel rubbed his face tiredly. "I'm getting too old for this."

He'd missed something. What had he missed?

"Jean, you can't behave like this. I won't always be around to handle the politics for you, and Raymond Boudreaux isn't just one, single man. He is a part of something greater, something that isn't going to go away. Either the Thieves learn to adapt or –"

"The price," Jean-Luc breathed out softly.

"–The what?"

"You never set a price," now that he'd said it out loud, Jean-Luc grew more confident. The two men in charge of the biggest criminal families the South had ever seen had just spent hours arguing over maps and rules and taxes and laws. Neither one of them had ever mentioned conditions. Jean-Luc turned to his father with a hard look in his eyes. "This peace treaty...what are you gaining from it?"

Marcel didn't look surprised. He was far too good for that.

But to someone who knew him well, the small beat of silence before he answered was very telling.

"Price? What are you on about, Jean? You weren't really paying attention tonight, were you?"

"You'd never agree to this unless you were gaining something from it. So what was your price?"

Something dark flashed through Marcel's eyes. Something like guilt.

Suddenly it was like Jean-Luc was thrown backwards through the night's events, watching them play through his mind like a movie reel in reverse.

"What was your price?"

The guilt in his father's eyes.

"I won't always be around."

"I'm getting too old for this."

The snake atop Raymond's cane.

The way they used each other's first names.

A crying girl trapped against the wall.

"Tonight you'll watch the snake eat the fox."

"Tonight you'll understand another truth about Death."

Another truth about Death.

"Father," Jean-Luc's voice shook. He didn't want to know. He had to know. "Father..."

"Jean, you've had a long night. Let's finish this later, no?" Marcel looked positively frightened now and he turned to knock on the black divider that separated the passengers from the driver. Jean-Luc grabbed his arm and pinned it to the seat.

"Jean!"

"What," Jean-Luc's voice was soft and he couldn't stop the tears from gathering in the corners of his eyes, "was your price?"

Marcel's face fell and his mouth shut with a soft, broken noise.

And Jean-Luc knew.

Someone had sabotaged Clemente and Jean-Luc's final job. Someone who knew.

"No," Jean-Luc whispered.

"Jean, please, it's not what you're thinking-"

"No."

"Jean-"

"NO!" Jean-Luc lunged with a roar. Tears streamed down his face as his hands closed around his father's neck. "Murderer! You killed him!"

Marcel tugged at Jean-Luc's wrists, eyes bulging as his face flushed an alarming shade of purple.

"You took us in, both of us!" Jean-Luc was weeping now, fingers turning white where they crushed the man's windpipe. "You raised us! You raised him! He was my brother!"

Marcel was beating at his forearms in desperation, body jerking and bucking underneath him. Jean-Luc waited until the man started to weaken before he released his grip and collapsed onto his father, sobbing brokenly into his chest.

"You killed him, you killed him, oh god," Jean-Luc sobbed brokenly, clinging to his Father's chest like a child.

Marcel gasped, great heaving breaths as his whole body shook. Several minutes passed before he slowly lifted his hands to stroke his son's hair.

"I know, I know. Shh, I'm here, it's alright. I'm here," Marcel held his boy and knew it was the end.

~-/-~

Marcel LeBeau never lived to the age of seventy.

They say he passed peacefully in his sleep, the night after the best Mardi Gras in the history of New Orleans.

Jean-Luc stood in front of the mausoleum once again.

Alone.

~-/-~

If you asked Jean-Luc to tell you about Death, he would tell you this:

The hardest part about Death is the mess it causes for those left behind.

~-/-~

If you asked Ginger LeDoux about death, she would probably be too high to understand.

Life hadn't been kind to Ginger.

She lived from one bump to the next, always searching for her next high. When she was young and beautiful it had been easy to score her drugs.

Sex for a hit.

It was a simple trade, and one that Ginger made many times.

After the pregnancy it became harder. The highs never lasted and the drugs stopped working. She spent many cold nights wandering the gutters, clutching her stomach and vomiting. Surely she would die from it.

The shakes from the withdrawal made it harder and harder. Her hair started falling out and her belly swelled. People stopped offering. They started steering around her, avoiding her path on the sidewalk.

For a while there at the end of the pregnancy, Ginger cleaned up and thought about being a mother.

She didn't know the first thing about kids, but maybe...maybe...

And then they came. Two little babies with hideous, demon eyes.

She'd done this. She'd done this to her babies.

Ginger didn't know a lot about death, but she knew plenty about heroin.

~-/-~

Cameron stumbled into the hotel room behind the woman, laughing and slapping at her naked backside. He'd met her down at Rizzo's jazz place, a little hole in the wall joint.

His contact never showed and he was about to give up the night as a loss and head back to the guild. But as he stood to leave, who should wander up to buy him a drink but little miss redhead here?

Sure, she looked a little on the 'used up' side of things, but she was turning out to be one hot lay.

Cameron helped her wrestle her clothes off and they stumbled toward the hotel bed.

Things were about to progress when a soft sound made Cameron tense. His head shot up and he scanned the room.

"Who-"

"It's just the brats, baby. Come on, give me some sugar," Ginger rubbed up against him with a lewd purr, but Cameron wasn't listening.

Sitting on the other side of the room in a worn crib were two babies.

Two babies with pure black eyes.

"What the fuck?!" Cameron shot up off the woman, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight.

One of the babies was sucking on its thumb and blinking dumbly around the room.

The other was watching him. Black, shining eyes with dark green irises followed his every move.

"Holy shit! What the hell is wrong with those kids?"

Things didn't go too well for Ginger or Cameron after that.

~-/-~

"- And you should have seen it, I mean, I've seen some shit ya know? But this was freaky as hell."

Jean-Luc ran through the numbers in the ledger one more time, trying to find the discrepancy. He was absolutely awful at keeping the books but he couldn't afford to retain an accountant anymore.

The money his father had left behind was dwindling and if something didn't change real soon, the Thieves might not be able to keep their territories secure this winter.

"Whatever, Cam, you stick your dick in crazy all the time. What have I told you about sticking your dick in crazy?"

"It wasn't her, you moron! It was these two kids she had."

"What, like, they were right there in the room with her?"

Jean-Luc tried to block out the chatter of the men behind him with increasing difficulty. He had come down to the kitchen for a break and somehow those damned books had followed him. Perhaps it was time to head back up to his office.

"Yeah. Right there. And one of them was watching us, you know?"

The men in the room jeered at that, laughing loudly.

"No, but you didn't see them. They had these eyes. Like...demon eyes. Eyes of the Devil."

"What did you just say?"

The books tumbled out of Jean-Luc's fingers and spilled across the floor. Everyone froze and turned to stare at the boss.

~-/-~

Remy wasn't sure about all this noise.

First his mom had screamed. Big men came through the door and mommy had screamed. That wasn't very nice.

Then Renée had grabbed his hand and squeezed. She was frightened, he could feel it. And that wasn't very nice either.

One of the men came over to their crib. Remy could feel the man's excitement and anger and greed and so many things he didn't have a word for. That wasn't very nice.

Mommy ran out of the room and didn't come back.

The men started talking. Then they started shouting.

Remy got sleepy so he laid down and tried to rest.

He felt himself get lifted up, out of the crib. He watched the big man yell at the others. Then the big man settled him against his chest for a warm cuddle. That part was nice.

But the worst part came right after.

They started walking toward the door, away from the room. Remy's head shot up in distress because they were all leaving. And Renée was still in the crib.

Remy screeched in fright, chubby little hand stretching back toward his sister. The man kept walking and Remy began to cry in earnest.

He squirmed. He wanted down! Now!

But the man kept walking and they were almost out the door.

Remy stretched until he could see over the man's shoulder.

Renée was watching him. She stood at the edge of the crib, not making a sound.

Remy lifted a hand and cried. The door shut.

She was gone.

~-/-~

Charles Xavier shot up with a shuddering gasp.

He'd seen a baby, he'd heard- he'd heard-

He took a deep breath, trying to orient himself. What was that? It had been something. Something powerful...

A twinge in his back almost brought him to his knees.

With a cry of pain he fell forward to grip the sofa.

When had he fallen asleep? He had dreamt something. What was it again?

"You okay Charles? I thought I heard..." Hank hung in the doorway to the parlour, voice wavering uncertainly.

"What? Oh," Charles looked down at his soiled pyjamas and frowned. When was the last time he'd bathed?

"Charles?" Hank took a step into the room, worry escalating.

"Medicine. Just need more medicine," he waved Hank off with a mumble.

"I- alright, yeah, I'll go make sure you have enough," Hank strolled away.

Charles wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. He blew out a cool breath and lowered himself onto the couch once more, waiting for Hank's return.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift hazily.

Just before sleep took him he remembered the strangest part of his dream.

A pair of black eyes.

~-/-~

There are a lot of people in New Orleans who learn about Death. About how cruel Death is. About how swift Death is, or how painful.

Sitting alone in a dirty motel room is one little girl who could probably tell you the most shocking thing of all.

The worst part about Death is being reborn.

~~~-/-~~~

Words From This Chapter:

"Ta gueule" = Literally translates as something like "your muzzle". It is a rude and shortened way of telling someone to "shut up".

"Mausoleum" = A small, ornate building usually found in a graveyard, used to store bodies in 'above ground' burials.

"Putain" = A diverse curse word that can change meaning, depending on how it's used. To call someone "putain" is to call them a "whore". To use it as an expletive it's akin to saying "Shit!" or "Fuck!" or "Dammit!".

"Conards/Conard" = A very derogatory term. Comparable to calling someone a "motherfucker" or a "cunt".

"Krewe" = A Krewe is a social club that plays an important role during Mardi Gras festivities. Krewes are famous for designing and parading their own floats, hosting grand parties often called 'Krewe Balls', and helping to maintain their communities and their historical culture. Joining a Krewe often requires a rite of passage, much like joining a fraternity or sorority.

"Petite" = Literally translated, it means "little". Can be used as an affectionate term for someone who is younger or smaller than you.

"Cheré" = Literally translated, it means "dear/dearie". Cheré is often used as a general term of address by Cajuns, when speaking with each other. Equivalent to some English folks using 'love' as in 'What will it be, love?'.

"The Big Easy" = A nickname for the city of New Orleans, Louisiana.