Full Summary: AU. There are rumors on the streets of New Orleans of something dark hidden within the catacombs of the city. Something beyond price. Something, even, worth dying for. A story about the blackest secrets of appetite and sin. ROMY Darkfic.
A/N: I was feelin' a little homesick this week, so I sat down with some coffee and I started writing and, hey presto: A Story. It was kind of like an unplanned pregnancy in retrospect. Just wanted to jot down some things that I really missed about N'Awlins and as I was typing I was like, "What's this? A story? Oh dear God, no. Stop that, that's a bad muse." This is my debut fiction online, in celebration of the end of the school year and of my impending move back to the city that has my heart. I realize that this chapter is kinda long (though not as long as this note, it seems…) and maybe even a little dull but give it a shot, huh? Rogue will even be in the next chapter, pinky promise. Also, it's important to note that some things about the city have been changed to make my job easier. And one last thing (I swear, I'll stop talking soon): it may be confusing to read since this site won't let authors alter the formats of the stories much--but the italicized paragraphs represent a simultaneous storyline.
Disclaimer:
Do I own Marvel? What do you think?


Never Say Die
Chapter One

Remy shut the engine off and sat on the motorbike for a moment, combing his hair out with his fingers while he watched the valet bend over and stub his cigarette against the sole of his shoe. The sun had already set, but it was still hot enough that the clean undershirt he had put on an hour ago clung to his back when he put the kickstand down with the toe of his boot, and he could feel sweat dampening the waistband of his pants. The valet pushed away from the wall and looked down for a moment, straightening his vest.

"Park your motorcycle for you, sir?" he asked, looking up again.

Remy leaned over and spat grit from the freeway out and then wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist. "T'anks, mon ami," he said. He took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them to the valet, who caught them against his chest. "You got de time?"

The man tugged the sleeve of his dress shirt up and checked his watch. "Half past the hour," he said.

Remy nodded, swinging his leg off the motorcycle and standing.

"Late?" The man asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Remy answered, knocking the man's shoulder as he brushed past him. He could see his own reflection in the glass double doors of the restaurant: the smudge of motor oil on his cheek; the glint of stubble on his unshaven jaw; the wrinkled clothes that he had found lying helterskelter where they had been torn off earlier: some hanging from the dresser knob, or a bedpost, or simply in a pile on the floor. He turned back. "How much for de cravat?"

The valet stopped. "My tie?" He glanced down and shook his head. "I don't know. Fifty bucks?"

Remy dug in his pocket and took out a crumpled bill and opened it. He pulled out another and glanced at it and said, "Forty. Best offer."

The man loosened the tieknot with a few short tugs and then ducked his head and took it off. He held it out to Remy, swinging from his forefinger in the breeze. Remy slapped the money into the valet's hand, and the man held it up and said, "Hey, thanks."

"My pleasure," he said over his shoulder, his fingers already sliding the knot up to the collar of his shirt to hide the bite marks on his neck as he pushed open the door to the restaurant.

After the sun had set in New Orleans, the lamplighters came outside and struck their matches against their thumbnails and lit the gas lanterns along the streets of the French Quarter. The jazz musicians left their flats with buckets and with saxophones, and they set the buckets on the sidewalk corners and stood beside them while they played. A man closed the wrought iron gate around Jackson Square Park and locked it and then put his hand on the gate and rattled it to make sure it was secure before he slipped the key into his pocket and limped away. And when he had gone, the coachmen began to line their carriages up by the park. They climbed down from the cabs and tied their reins to the fence, and then stood holding the mules by their bridles and patting their muzzles while they waited for fare.

"You're late," Jean-Luc said as Remy pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.

"I know," Remy said unapologetically, unfolding his napkin. Jean-Luc overturned a goblet and took the wine bottle out of its bucket of ice.

"White?" asked Remy.

Jean-Luc shook his head. "Red," he said. There was a click as the bottleneck met the rim of the glass, followed by a short slosh of wine. He handed it to his son. "I've been waitin' for forty minutes."

"Traffic," said Remy offhandedly. He took the glass and swilled it around before taking a drink and then pursing his lips.

"Is dat what y'call it now?" said Jean-Luc, putting the bottle away. He raised two fingers for the waiter. "Tell me, is 'traffic' still asleep in your bed?"

Remy laughed quietly. "A man don't kiss an' tell, mon père," he said. He set the glass down. "You had somet'ing t'discuss?"

"Yes," he said. "T'ieves business." The waiter came and took a pen and a pad from the pocket of his apron skirt and Jean-Luc fell silent. They ordered crawfish étouffé and gumbo with potato salad, and when the waiter had left, Jean-Luc leaned forward and interlaced his fingers. "I got somet'ing y'really goin t'love, Remy," he said. "I got somet'ing extraordinary."

In front of Jackson Square, the mystics gathered.

They gathered between the white cathedral and the locked gate and they set up their folding tables and spread their oilcloths over the tables and lit their candles. Then they sat down and waited for the tourists to arrive. They waited while policemen rode their horses past them on the slate sidewalks, their hoovesteps falling away into the night. They waited while the moon darkened slowly overhead until there was nothing left of it except a thin sickle of silver light.

They waited.

They were quiet as they stared at each other over the table, listening to the clink of flatware against plates and the low murmur of the other diners. Remy sat back in the chair slowly, holding his elbows in his palms. "Here?" He said, raising his eyebrows and pointing to the floor. "In New Orleans?" He shook his head. "Non."

"You're not interested?"

"No, I meant your information is wrong. You're mistaken."

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't exist. Because it can't exist."

Jean-Luc leaned across the table and whispered:

"But what if it did?"

They saw the eclipse and knew that it was an omen. There was a pall over the square as they read the palms of the tourists and put the money they earned away in zippered pouches. A woman with a bandanna tied over her hair began to shuffle a deck of tarot cards and then laid five facedown on the table, her ringed fingers flashing in the lamplight. She paused for a moment and then turned over the first card. A yellow card with the drawing of a young man stepping off a cliff. Seven uppercase letters at the bottom of the picture spelled out the words "The Fool."

The woman's fingers touched the face of the man on the card, and she said softly to herself:

"This is the beginning."

"Dey say it's cursed."

The server came pushing a trolley in front of him and set their orders in front of them with a clatter of dishware. Jean-Luc thanked him and waited until he was gone. Then he lifted the lid from the salver and watched steam boil out from the crawfish. "Rumors, Remy," he said, spooning potato salad onto his plate. They ate in silence. After awhile, Remy put the spoon down and wiped his mouth with the napkin. He picked up the goblet of wine and brought it to his lips and said, "How much is it worth?" before taking a sip.

Jean-Luc dipped his fingers into the bowl of lemonwater the waiter had left. "It's priceless," he said after a moment.

"Does Henri know?"

The man shook his head, sitting back and adjusting the waistband of his pants. "Only you."

"Why?"

"You're de only one who can. Now, y'gonna call or fold?"

Remy wiped his hands on the tablecloth and looked at his father. "I'm in."

She turned over the second card. "The Knight of Wands," she read aloud. A palm reader at a nearby table looked up. "The protagonist of the story is a man of great physically attraction. Arrogant. Overconfident. He is often pursues sexual conquests."

"Dere be one minor complication," Jean-Luc said, flagging the attendant. "You're not de only one after dis t'ing."

"I t'ought no one else knew."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Dis one is not from de Guild. Goes by de trade name 'Rogue.'"

"Rogue?" he repeated as the dishes were cleared away. "What do you know about him?"

Jean-Luc made an 'O' with his hands. "Rien."

"Not'ing at all?"

"Not one goddamn t'ing."

"The Queen of Wands." The candleflame gutters. "The knight is opposed by a woman who is both vigorous and strong. She is sexually appealing, and makes a powerful first impression."

Remy opened the door and held it for his father. He could feel the humidity even before he stepped outside and let it fall shut behind him, a hiss of cool air escaping the building. He took the tin of cigarettes out of his pocket, removed one and slid it behind his ear.

"Look at dat sky," Jean-Luc was saying. He nodded his chin at the roofline. "Don't make it dat color anywhere else. Purple-like."

Remy could hear the engine of the bike approaching and put the tin away. He glanced up at the sky, and before he stepped off the curb he looked at his father and said:

"Where's de moon?"

"The Tower. He will soon experience an upheaval or a humbling. What was hidden will now be exposed."

Remy swung his leg over the bike. He heard Jean-Luc say something and looked up. The man reached into his back pocket for his billfold, and then took out a folded piece of paper and held it between his fore and middle fingers.

Remy took the paper from him. "What's dis?"

"It's de only clue we got right now. I sent your R.S.V.P. already. Be dere."

Remy nodded. "À bientôt," he said, revving the motor.

Jean-Luc stepped back as he pulled away from the sidewalk and into traffic, and when Remy looked back, he could see his father standing in the city with his hands in his pockets and staring at the New Orleans sky, and at the place where the moon used to be.

When she reached the last card, the fortune teller paused. The belltower of St. Louis was chiming the hour, competing with the jazz and the zydeco and the blues and the Cajun music that vibrated from the walls of the city. The eclipse had passed and the moon was once again in the sky, pale and bright. Slowly, she turned flipped the card. She was still for a long time thereafter, sitting with her knuckles pressed against her mouth and her other arm extended along the table as she held the card in her fingertips. Then she said in a whisper that seemed to resonate beneath the music of Jackson Square, "Something wicked this way comes."

She let the card fall from her fingers and twirl to the ground, and there it remained, face-up on the stone tiles. The illustration showed two humans chained to a throne where a monster sat and watched, holding a burning torch down at his side. And beneath the picture, boldfaced words read:

"THE DEVIL."

A/N: As if one author's note isn't bad enough, right? So, I'm guessing this is like Olympic ice skating or something. I put on a glittery little tutu and do my routine and then you hold up a scorecard, 1 to 10? Well, in that case, the ball's in your court. So…Review, pretty please?
P.S. Iknow, I know. I abused the melodrama in this chapter.
P.P.S. Any guesses as to what he's after? Come on, humor a girl. Take a shot and I'll even give ya a cookie.
P.P.P.S. God, I'm a windbag.