Disclaimer: I don't own the lyrics to Bob (Poet Genius!) Dylan's song,
'Just Like a Woman.'
Thank-you to Rat, girlonthem00, Koala-chan, turtle dove, LeochicX and The Frumious Bandersnatch!
A/N; The Notre Dame Cemetery is a figment of this author's imagination as is the Palais Napoleon on Bourbon Street. The names of the Jazz musicians mentioned were found in M. Ondaatje's novel 'Coming Through Slaughter'.
= Translated from Hispanic
Chapter.13.
New Orleans, Louisiana. Four days later...
The carnival was in full swing, rapturous and unrelenting; what Ororo had witnessed just over seven days ago was nothing compared to the explosive cavalcade she was peering down upon now. The flat metal slats of the slightly warped Venetian blind where open to their full extent, allowing the red acid spill of a flickering neon Budweiser sign to light the room, coming in to cover everything with thick crimson lines. It cut like thick laser lights through the warm, brown dimness of the moderately sized space. Ororo watched, with the steady dispassionate gaze of her cool blue eyes as the throng of the parade passed three stories below the tenement building that she and Remy where now holed up in since their arrival back in the Big Easy that afternoon. It was one of two 'safe-houses' that Remy had retained since his expulsion from the Guild and by extension the city, precisely for unlikely situations such as this. The other was on Bellville St, over the river in Algíers, a little more out of the way than this one, The Palais Napoleon, right in the heart of the French Quarter, on Bourbon St. A prime, if a little unsafe, location.
The dumb rhythm of the players pulsed through the walls of the old building, so much so that Ororo could feel its syncopation battering dully into her bear soles. It nearly implored her to pat them in time against the fuzz of the carpet. She was only stopped by the rustling interference of a conflicting tune, pouring in with a coating of soft static from an antique radio sat on the bureau against the far wall...
'...She takes, just like a woman,
Yes she does.
She makes love, just like a woman,
Yes she does.
And she aches, just like a woman
But she breaks, just like a little girl...'
Ororo turned from the window, to an extent blocking out the noise that flowed up from the street as she absently felt at her side, through the thick denim shirt that covered her sublimely, perfectly; the only item she had on after her shower. There was certainly still a tenderness there, where the branch had cracked into her rib, as there was on various other parts of her body that had suffered abrasions recently but having had the chance to recuperate, they weren't any where near as bad as they could have been.
They'd been lucky---damn lucky---even Remy had enough humility to admit that much. If it hadn't have been for their chance meeting with that boat on the Xingu, they'd have left their bodies in the rainforest. There was no denying that. The 'Rosie Celesta', as it sailed innocently down the expanse of the muddy river, had only just spotted the limp figure of a woman, slumped down in the silt, her short shock of white hair a beacon for them to follow. If it hadn't have been for that, they'd probably have sailed right past her; only by chance did the strong beam of their prow light glint against her platinum strands. Storm's attempt at a cry of help had certainly not been heard at all.
The boat's crew, made up of forest natives and biological researchers, the likes of which swarmed around that impressive place like the hoards of flies and bugs within it, had charitably taken good care of them. Using their collective knowledge on native remedies for their physical wounds and Remy's inexplicable fever, they'd helped them restore their strength as they headed gradually up the calm river, that turned every colour from bright sap green to the coyest of pinks, for the city of São Félix. They'd given them a cover story of course for why they where there and in such a state on discovery, knowing that the Professor-of-such-and-such university wouldn't work on them. A fairly tight-knit group of people as they were. Instead they'd painted themselves as adventure tourists, not uncommon in that part of the world. A convenient story had been weaved, the details of which were too pedestrian to repeat. But the box, the box had been explained simply as a trinket, bartered for on an encounter with a local tribe. Day's had past with the frustrating speed of a dismal Sunday, in extremely uncomfortable fortitude, but once they were sufficiently returned to health, they arrived without incident at the small city in the North of the Xingu region and found themselves able to 'hire' a light air craft to get back to Santa Maria das Barreiras, where the X-Jet awaited them. The creativity of desperation in the past had bode well for them both. As it had turned out, the God's had been smiling down on them once more and there was no situation that they would not eventually surmount.
So four days after they had obtained what they had risked life and limb for, they were back now, here in New Orleans, where the summer carnival was at full tilt and the hazy August dragged callously on like the last drunken party guest that resolutely refused to leave.
The hard drive of the high powered shower was nothing more than back ground noise as Ororo moved over to the double bed in the centre of the room that was decked with only the essentials; the bureau, bed, a wardrobe and a tiny bathroom---no hint of personalisation, no superfluous items necessary for comfort. The whirl of a creaky fan added to the ambiance as Storm sat down on the bed, crossing her long bare legs over one another as she took up the thin toothed black comb she'd previously abandoned and started to run it through her hair. Not that it really needed it, she had combed it to death already but she found the action cathartic, the scrape of the teeth like a massage on her scalp, leaving distinct separate tracks in its warm dampness. A sensation she could enjoy now that her locks were no longer quiet as plentiful, though she noticed they had grown somewhat even in the past week; the back reaching down to the base of her neck whilst her fringe had to be flicked to the side, the evidence of the slight kink within its growth obvious. Maybe she'd get it trimmed once they were back in New York...maybe she wouldn't.
It was nice to have such trivial concerns after the chaos of the last week, and that wasn't only this 'misadventure' they'd been sent on. They had almost not come back from it, that was true, but they'd 'almost' not survived a thousand other jaunts too, funnily enough it came with the territory when your gig was being a superhero. But to have failed on this one would have been a travesty. If she'd have lost Remy back there, there would have been no word with which to categorise her devastation...She shook her head as if to toss something loose. She couldn't let this rule her mind any longer. 'What if's' were no good to anyone, they would drive her insane and so was resolute to stop.
'...and she aches, just like a woman...'
She had fallen in love with him. There was nothing else for it. Of all the people in the world...
There was no other explanation or reason for it. Of course, she had always 'loved' him but it was something much more to be 'in love' with him. It was funny, that it had taken something so extreme to make her realise that that was what was going on; a gradual process that had none-the-less jumped up on her like a stalking tiger. The absolute last thing in the world that she had ever expected to happen...the last thing. How long had such a thing been stirring? She had never been one to take love, the passion of a lover lightly, and gave it even more sparsely and always, unfortunately, to her detriment. Falling for a smooth talking, sleek limbed Cajun charmer wasn't exactly the smartest move on her part, she thought wryly and sighed. But then, this was Remy; everything he was to people on the outside was nothing of what he was to her. Her best friend, her soul-mate, her comfort blanket when all else around her leaned on her for support, guidance and leadership...her lover?
Perhaps.
This was going to take Ororo Munroe, Mistress of Chronic Emotional Repression, some time to adjust to. A lot of time in fact...
She heard the shower clank to a halt, the high pitched beep of the off button ringing through. Her hand halted on her head and she brought the comb down halfway through its trek back, resting it for a moment in her lap before placing it back down onto the plain cotton sheet of the bed. She fixed her eyes on the white silk sheen of the bathroom door, the condensation of hot air clinging to it like a perspiring layer, as above the old wood framed fan with the latticed blades creaked around again and again and again...
*
Remy pulled his jeans on even though his skin was still a little damp. He pushed in the button above the zip and when he let them drop noticed that they hung quite low on his hips. He must have lost a little weight over the last week---or since he'd last used this place as a refuge, which had to be going on for three years now. The last time he'd seen his father in fact, before unexpected recent events. He tousled his hair with his hands, spraying water everywhere, sprinkler-like, not bothering to towel it dry. Rather he let it drip where it would. He was about to leave the room when he felt the furtive ripple of another jolt, sparking along with the rush of his blood. His hands scrunched into fists in an attempt to staunch the feeling that had been coming in waves ever since the initial fever had lifted. Being the stubborn man he was he'd said nothing of this to Ororo, or anyone else, least of all the people that had helped them to safety. It wasn't as if it was something he didn't recognise...
Taking in a deep breath he waited for a moment, lids loosely down, to let it pass, for he knew that it would. The fast hiss, the staunching of a sulphurous match in a puddle and it was gone. He swallowed down, the sudden excess of saliva sticky. Tentatively he reached up to grab the yellowed cord of the bathroom light, gave it a quick yet forceful tug and entered the main room, grabbing up a fresh towel and the small battery razor from the mirror shelf as he went. Leaving all thoughts behind him.
*
The tune plonking its way indolently from the metal grate on the front of the radio had changed now, skipping through the folk to the intricate weaving of jazz notes emerging from it as if bubbling up from the bottom of the swamp, transporting them through time to poor ramparts and slick hustlers on river steamers. Remy listened for a moment, just inside the door jamb of the bathroom, taking his time before he ventured to shift his gaze to Ororo as she sat on his bed, her long athletic legs free, one of his old shirts clinging over her curves, draped like the finest silk simply by virtue.
With a deft flick another noise entered the fray, the soft constant buzz of jostling blades inside the silver mesh head of his travel razor. Quickly and with no apparent rhyme or reason he ran the handy appliance over the thick growth that consumed his chin, cheeks and the top parts of his neck; revealing lighter patches of skin randomly until the whiteness of the porous material of the towel about his neck and shoulders was pebble-dashed with dark specs, like tiny bugs nesting, at some points gathering in thick clumps. Like a light bursting on to banish the black of a room he recognised the splintered old tune.
"'Since Mah Bes' Girl turned me Down.'---Bix Beiderbecke an' 'is Gang." He said with a note of triumph; his head cocked slightly as he listened, turning the razor off and tossing it down onto the bureau carelessly.
"And the year?" Ororo asked unexpectedly, genuinely curious as the recording was aged, blips and scratches strangely adding to its authenticity and character as one would expect, drawing Remy's attention away from the radio and the suddenly jaunty turn of the tune flowing from it.
"Nineteen...Twen'y Seven." He answered confidently without pause as he sauntered further into the room. Quickly he ruffled the black-speckled towel through his hair, not bothering to rid it of the stubble first. Such was his ungainly scruffiness at times, endearing as it was, it could not be doubted. He grazed a hand over the recently shaved area that retained the subtle buzz from the vibration of the razor; the whole bottom half of his face, free from the bristle as it was, still retained a greyish shadow as it always did. "Now dis," He started, jabbing an enthusiastic finger in the direction of the old radio, "DIS is what yo' call real music---de ol' Masonic on Perdido an' Rampart. Dat's where it really used t' kick it---all de greats played dere in their day." He dropped his head down, the top half of his body at an angle with the floor as the towel rubbed swiftly, more violently, muffling his words somewhat as he recanted names of men long gone, legends in their day. "Freddie Keppard, John Robichaux, 'Buddy' Bolden. You mention dem t' anyone in dis town, an' dey'll tell yo' some tales." He smiled as if at some private, amusing thought when his hands seemed to freeze, his attention caught; a sudden stop as he noticed something. The grey satchel sat, slumped in the corner of the room, looking totally innocuous. Its buckles loosely done up, it's lazily shape showing no indication of what it held inside.
Ororo turned and followed the line of his vision; even though she had had her back to him, she could sense something odd about his abrupt silence. Drawing in a breath to ask, it stilled when it fell upon the bag. She didn't need to. Instead she stood from the bed again, taking the comb with her and languidly drawing it through her hair once more with distracting charm. It was enough to take Remy's eyes and thoughts away from the contents of the bag and onto her. He let the towel slink back down around his neck for a moment before letting it slip to the floor randomly. He'd never been what one would call house-proud to add to everything else.
"So," Ororo started as she came to the window, "Have you decided?" She asked as she turned to face him, resting casually against the smooth sill.
Remy glanced back at the bag, "To be honest chère," He quickly faced her once more, "I ain't t'ought 'bout it too much."
"Not that it is important or anything." She raised a sharply caustic eyebrow as she crossed her arms over her chest, off-handily waving the comb to the side, holding it aloft.
"Now don' be sarcastic Stormy," He grinned, "It don' suit you."
Ororo shook her head, a look of exasperation marking her features. Not in a good way either. "Do not try to dodge the subject."
"Who's dodgin'?" Remy splayed his hands and shrugged his shoulders in pretence of innocence.
"Do not play games Remy," She suddenly looked concerned, shifting her gaze to the floor as she unlocked her arms, placing her hands on the flat of the sill behind her; her head slightly bowed. "This is serious," She jerked up to look at him; eyes sparkling like ice in the glint of an unhindered sun, "---just look what it has done to you, it---."
"It ain't done nuhddin'." He cut in, taking on a sharpened harsh tone; his demeanour changing in an instant.
"Nothing?" Ororo was almost incredulous, "You can barely go near the thing-- -."
"It been gettin' bedduh---I don' feel it so much now." He willed the sensation in his hands to mute, imagined dipping them in a pool of fresh, cool water. If he could think it away it would go. He tried his best to convince himself.
"You may be able to lie with the best of them Remy LeBeau but they do not work with me---I know you too well."
"Mores de pity." He mumbled and then flashed her a crocked, hopefully appeasing smile. "I didn' mean---."
"I know what you meant Remy." She pre-empted shortly, her stately aloofness creeping back in; her glare sedated but a glare none-the-less. Quickly she glanced down at the floor before a flicker of emotion over-came her and turned to face the window once more, taking up her previous position. "For everything we have been through, and all my intimate knowledge...at times it feels as though I do not know the first thing about you. All the trust given unquestioningly, and sometimes..." That fact hurt all the more now. But what happened back there, it wasn't one way traffic...
"Oh yah, I fo'got---yo' de mos' open person I evah met." Remy shot back bitingly, instantly regretting his sudden flash of temper. But he was thankful that she didn't bother to respond. "Dis is crazy," He hissed to himself through a sucked in breath, giving a disappointed shake of his head. An argument, the direction this conversation was in free-fall towards, was not what he wanted. He gazed over at her; the red light catching her full on so that her sable skin glowed with it, basked in it. He found himself holding onto the top bar of the bedstead to his left, as if were he to let go his knees would buckle, sending him crashing down. Resistance was futile, he acknowledged painfully. He had to go to her--- behaving like this...it was simply pointless. If she pushed him away then it was a risk he was willing to take. But he had to know if this sudden whirlwind was just that and would cease as quickly as it came. A connection more attuned than anything he had ever known passed between them in that temple, when they had aided each other to cheat a certain death. Whatever happened after tonight, he had to know...
Ororo tossing the redundant comb down and lent on the window sill, not so much watching the revellers this time around as running her eyes over the rusty balustrade that ran around the tenements small balcony; the street signs and metal plated adverts, like printers original sheets that were bleached from the sun, rendering them in pastel colours; ghosts of their former glory through the rain of ticker tape. The sky was turning purplish blue over the clouding haze of street and carnival lights, strewn on cables above the partiers, styled like Chinese paper lamps in green purple and gold. The tread on the carpet told her that he was coming to her long before the feel of his hands, cupping gently over her hips and the return of the stale cigarette scent from the couple he'd had before his shower; bitter tobacco, in its devouring opaqueness. Blankly, she continued to stare out at the street but registered nothing, letting her hands fall down to cover his as they sat as heavy as lead. A welcome weight.
Remy lent his now fairly smooth chin on her shoulder, finding a home in the curve, naturally letting his body press to hers, thankful that she did try to pull away. The frisson hit him immediately, the wanton ache that flowed from her to him and back again; this building need indescribable and undeniable. What had changed over the last week neither could say, or be sure, but something certainly had... "I'm sorry chère---but if yo' ain't noticed, Remy's stuck between a rock an' a 'ard place righ' now. I didn' mean t' be a dick." His lips came up close to her ear, breath whistled past, "Forgive me?"
"It is okay." She offered gently; recent events---of all kinds---had taken their toll on them both. Remy shifted his hands on her hips slightly, ruffling her shirt; the jutting bone telling beneath his fingers. They moved as if they were about to attempt to lift the thin denim material, but stopped just short, remaining where they were.
"How long will we have to stay here?" Ororo asked, focusing her mind, bringing a semblance of normality to the proceedings; though it didn't escape Remy that the question had a note of breathiness in it somewhere. She squeezed her hands over his as if urging them to travel without wanting to say so, wanting them to pick up where he'd backed off; letting him know that it was okay. Forget needing time to fathom this, she was lost in it here and now, on a sultry night in New Orleans. His fingers moved softly but still refused to act.
"Until we decide what we gon' do," He said quietly, urging control from somewhere as he finally saw fit to answer her; tobacco warmth stirring against her soft cocoa neck. The witch was tempting him too much... "Or, 'til dey come lookin' fo' us. It won't take dem long t' finger out dat we back in town." He was correct in his former presumption, he couldn't resist this. Now that he was holding her again, openly basking in her presence like never before, he didn't think he'd ever be able to let go again; his hands expressing a possessive mania all of their own. He never wanted to let go...ever. That rain perfume was still there with the sandalwood and the more clinical scent of soap as he brushed his lips up her neck, inhaling in at the same time. Everything about her held him in her sway. "Mon Dieu girl." He sighed just beneath her ear as if in discomfort mixed with a kind of bitter-sweet disbelief. "Tell me you wan' dis as much as I do..." He pressed his lips lightly to her skin, feeling the shudder, relishing it. "Please..."
Ororo found herself dizzy with the pounding beat from the frantic musicians playing below and the sensuous creep of his hands down past her hips, quickly finding their way to the thick hem of the denim shirt. Unconscionable was she by this time for that's where she left them, moving her own to grip at the sill of the window as she let herself be lost in his attentions. The comb knocked to the floor, unnoticed. It had to be admitted that they hadn't shared so much as a touch since their longing affirmation after escaping death. But now felt as good a time as any to pick up from where they'd left off...His plea swam through her head as sweet as any music around them, that assaulted from all angles and she yearned for his hands to reach up from where they currently lay, resisting their desire to ride underneath her shirt, higher up her legs. But she couldn't resist the urge to part her long lithe limbs, just a little. "Remy...I think you know the answer to that already. Because if you do not by now, then you are a fool..." She felt his soft breathless laugh on her neck followed by the brief graze of his teeth, prompting her to reach behind her and sink one hand into his still wet locks, letting the cool drips cover her palm. At that moment, this precise point in time she knew for sure; there was no way on earth that this was the deep set ice of too long alone. Cheap thrills and the fleeting touch of a lover could be found anywhere; close friendships were not jeopardised on such trivial things. Especially one that had endured so much...too much.
"Mebbe I am a fool..." He murmured in lust un-contented, "Fo' ignorin' you dese las' few months...chèrie." The tender name was practically growled through his huskiness into her delicately crafted lobe as he took heart enough to push up the edge of the shirt, damp, water-soft hands riding along the dark amber skin, stuttering up as they stuck in traction.
Ororo rested one leg on tip-toe, letting it fall to the side like a gate on hinges as a clever hand moved inwards. She caught the gasp on the tip of her tongue, lightly resting between two sets of pristine teeth; almost biting down onto it. Trumpets jostled with each other in the background; piercing in maddening desire. With a flowing manoeuvre she turned around to face him; his hands slipping back up to the outside of her thighs, gliding up briefly to slide over her bare buttocks and then back down again. Her hands linked roughly at the back of his head, pulling at his hair as he yanked her legs further apart and simultaneously lifted her, pushing further into her domain as he sat her on the warm plastic of the window sill at her back, making her gasp with fear and anticipation of the unknown.
She found herself smiling as they held that position, still as statues for a moment apart from heaving chests, the rush overpowering for both of them as their eyes locked. The red of the neon sign outside made the solid black of Gambit's orbs into a swirl of colour, set against the ruby jewel in their centres that were lit like the fierceness of hot coals. In the pull of passion their lips crushed together; their kiss rabid and full. She hooked her long legs up, above his hips, locking them about his waist.
"Remy..." She rasped, her voice broken as for a moment their lips parted, only to join again ardently, desperately. All the longing in that rendition of his name provoked him forwards; his fingers digging into her thighs as they clenched at the touch, muscles tensed.
"Say it 'Ro..." He shuddered a breath close to her mouth, catching them again in a kiss because he could not help but, "I wanna 'ere yo' say you want me...dat's all I need t' hear..."
Ororo closed her eyes as she tasted the bitter leaves, her head tilted as she smiled again against his lips, letting him feel it. She unlocked her hands, instead wrapping her arms completely around his neck, weaving them over one another in the infallibility of a lover's embrace. With a slow roll of her hips, she intoned, with a quiet vividness, "I want this...I want you, Remy...I want you so much, you have no idea..."
"Oh I t'ink I do 'Ro...I t'ink I do..." The unbridled zeal of his building passion passed through him as he kissed her hard; that sunrise in his mind again; the swamp morning bright, clear as if it were before him now. But this time there would be no walking away.
* * *
A crypt in the Notre Dame Cemetery, the outskirts of the New Orleans Bayou...
Cross legged and back crooked over; Señor Pedro Velasquez Lopez sat on the ground, staring obliquely ahead of him through single vision. The small velvet covered cushion beneath saved him from the uncomfortable severity of the hard ground, though many of his deputies weren't quite so lucky. There were seven of them with his currently, sat either side of him, poker- straight and as stoic as one would expect when faced with a full 'battalion' of New Orleans foot soldiers behind and in front of them. It had been a conspicuous choice for Jean-Luc to decide that the central crypt of Notre Dame cemetery, one of New Orleans many 'cities of the dead', the final resting place of generations of the LeBeau clan, would be an ideal place to hand over the coveted Carcoccia.
There was undeniably a sense of intimidation here, even Lopez couldn't dispute that; the lines of stone caskets emitting an air of ancestral respect that the rival clan couldn't ignore. They had certainly set out to go trough with this with as much dignity as they could muster. Lopez and his ilk had to begrudgingly profess admiration for their guile. All about them lay their past dead, two uniform rows lining the thick walls that for all their sturdiness had at last succumb to the invading moisture of the surrounding swamp; gleaning in random patches as it coursed down the brickwork, patterns of green algae. The whole structure was on a slight tilt in fact, the left side subsiding into the unsteady earth, the sponge- like ground reclaiming it, swallowing it bit by bit, year by year. One day, none of this would remain.
He cast his one good eye slowly over the horizontal stone figures, atop of their solid coffins---in death as they never were in life; their grandeur posthumously granted. As it was with all figures of supposed veneration. Gradually his careful gaze fell on the large opening at the far end of the candle lit room, whereon a young dark featured woman appeared in his eye line. She waited, close to but not resting on the sturdy doorjamb; simply waiting for instruction, her hands folded in an obedient, subservient manner in front of her. The signal passed so swiftly as not to be discernable; a quick glimmer, a fleeting twitch told her to leave. She was not needed here anymore and was more than happy to oblige to his wish that she make herself scares. Take word outside is what was passed. And so she would.
As she disappeared into the blackness of the space beyond, Lopez thought of her no more, turning back to gaze distractedly ahead of him; a dry discreet cough shattering the quiet, coming from somewhere on his left hand side; its origin indeterminate. Absently he stroked at his bristly greying beard; running the leather through with a scratching sound, wondering how long they would have to be here. It had taken him no time at all to organise the mass excursion when he had received word to get to New Orleans post-haste; the message having been communicated that Gambit and his weather manipulating companion had been spotted in São Félix---looking rather worse for ware---two days ago. Jean-Luc had been---surprised---to say the least that Lopez and several of his flunkies, his entire inner circle in fact, even his despised older brother, had unexpectedly arrived in the city. Though he was even more suspicious that they had come alone and none of the representatives of the other Guilds involved in this debacle had yet to show themselves. But Lopez had his reasons and was not in that much of a hurry to put LeBeau's mind at rest.
An hour-glass sat at the top end of the crypt, behind the place that would be graced by Jean-Luc's 'privy council'; the golden sand slipping in its measured journey through the slim eyelet of space between to bell masses. The massive object that denoted the passing of twenty-four hours had been tipped in its solid mahogany frame by an anonymous flunky when the two parties had entered the chamber; though it seemed to Lopez only a fraction of the twinkling grains that appeared precious in the candle glow as they ran, systematically dripping, down to the bottom cavity. But over an hour had passed as the men and women sat in limbo, unaware of how long they would be here.
Again the San Diego leader moved his shifty eye about the room, for perhaps the hundredth time; the New Orleans clan that formed a steady uniform row in front of the opposite row of grand coffins, covered by their jade green robes, lined with an ostentatious rim of real gold thread, remained silent, their faces shaded by the gaping hoods of their ceremonial wear. The ones that sat behind them were similar in their wears and disposition and in an-- -unusual---display of respect, none seemed to be armed. Old ways were not quite as dead as many feared. Though Lopez was certain there would be scores of armed and eager to kill 'soldiers' elsewhere in the crypt or maybe outside where he had been informally instructed to leave the majority of his entourage.
He took a deep breath of balmy air, full with the stifling aroma of candle wax, the notion conspicuous in the quiet; the sound of someone else shifting on the stone floor and then silence. For thieves patience was indeed a virtue.
* * *
Outside...
Miguel Velasquez Lopez paced at the side of the north wall of the sunken crypt, only just holding back from muttering to himself. His internal dialogue ranting at full flow in his insecurity. The long brittle yellow grasses rustled dryly as his legs cut swathes through them; the fifteen other San Diego thieves watching him with a discretion that pretended that they were not. Some stood, other sat idly on tilting tombstones smoking, whilst the majority hung lazily off the sides of the five jeeps that had been provided for them to journey out here; legs hanging out of open doors or over the sides of the thick bars of the frame. Idle chatter present but hushed in accordance with their revered locale; whispered jokes, stunted laughter, crickets were rife.
The thickset, phlegmatic man, who mirrored his younger brother in almost every instance, perhaps a little greyer, cracked the knuckles on each of his hands alternately as he continued to push back and forth through the unkempt grass. Something about this whole set up sat uneasily with him. And for once it wasn't only as a result of the long running feud between the two siblings. The characterisation of their relationship that ran like a dark ever-present undercurrent; never spoken but never forgotten, never ignored. Certain facts, the way Pedro had approached the entire thing was simply...suspect somehow. And as he came back up the side of the crypt and up close to the unguarded entrance, the cause of no small part of his consternation emerged from the double breasted opening. Señorita Jacqueline Quixote.
As the young girl began to walk towards the rest of the group, close to the cars, Miguel nodded to her, in that pertinent way of jutting out the chin, indicating that he wanted words with her. She turned on her heel immediately, trying to suppress a sly smile. This was just too easy, the doppelgänger thought to herself as she came to a rest a yard or so away from the older Lopez brother. 'Putty in her hands' was more than apt.
"Yes." Again, she waited obediently, this time her hands clasped behind her back, legs slightly apart in the stiff stance of an army private.
"What's going on in there?" Miguel asked curtly as she came close and settled to a stop.
The dark girl shook her head tightly, with distinct discipline. "Nothing." She replied, "Until Jean-Luc arrives and we hear word of Gambit, I don't suppose anything will." Just the ghost of a piqued look ran across her face, her brow 'wincing', before she turned, as if to head back towards the group.
He caught it. As was intended. "What is it?" Miguel asked suspiciously; her quick rise to Pedro's close confidant, a process that seemed to have hastened ten-fold since the discovery of the Spanish map, enough to have the wily elder brother on edge; any reason to doubt in truth, he took it for all its worth. He noted the sudden look of nervousness in her large dark eyes, that agedness that oft characterised them masked by it as if a sheet were thrown over.
"I should not say." 'Jacqueline' replied, almost defiantly, but not too much. She didn't want to push it. The woman deserved an Oscar.
Miguel regarded her for a moment; calculating eyes intense as he ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom teeth, contemplating. Finally he nodded his head, jutting it in a clear direction over to a collection of high headstones and a small solid tomb opposite the LeBeau crypt and then started for it. Mystique followed through the caressing stalks, that cunning quirk on her mouth quelled once more. But it didn't take long for it to contort into an open gape of surprise as Lopez grabbed hold of her arm once they were just around the cover of one of the leaning grey tablets.
Swinging her around Miguel slammed the young girl into its lichen encrusted surface, pinning her up against it. Mystique bit at the inside of her cheek to quash her anger and resist retaliating; she could snap this bastard's neck with the flick of her wrist if she so wished and was bitterly sorry that she couldn't. Not yet at any rate.
"I don't care for your conniving snaking up the Clan's ladder Señorita," He seethed in her face, his browning teeth gritted, "Any whore worth their salt can sleep their way to the top, he sniped bitterly, but all that aside, what's going on?"
She shook her head energetically, yellow and white flecks of lichen crumbling off the headstone of John Mills Esq., 1824 to 1898, etched deeply but worn down into near invisibility, to fall like confetti into her jet black locks, "Nothing Señor, I swear on the---."
Miguel made a gruff noise of frustration, pushing his hands into her shoulders even more so, putting pressure on the nerves above the bones on each side as he leant his considerable bulk into her; an action to which even Mystique couldn't help but give a genuine wince, propelling her inner anger to ferocious levels. "Something is going on and I want to know what it is Jacqueline," Mystique heard a sharp zing from somewhere below as he relinquished his hold on her right shoulder and reached into his uniform for something, drawing it out with frightening speed. "Now, tell me what you know---because this whole deal stinks and I want to know what's gone rancid." His usual conspicuous flaccidness showing for what it truly was; a guise that was nothing more than to lure. She gained a new respect for his cunning there and then.
Though she couldn't actually feel the knife, the definite indentation in the tough cloth of her uniform, just beneath the end of her metal breast plate, pushed against her stomach dangerously. Just one expert shove, which she was now in no doubt he was more than capable of, and irreparable damage would be inflicted. This only made it all the sweeter. "He will kill me." She whimpered, her breath shuddering past her lips. The further burrow of the blade made clear his impatience as it came perilously close to cutting through the substantial weave. "Okay, okay!" She conceded. "But I only do this for the good of the Guild."
"What do you mean?" He rasped.
"We can not have traitors leading us." She hissed in a fearful whisper, her eyes wondering the white misty murk of the quiet graveyard as if searching for prying eyes and ears. "Two days ago, I found something in your brother's bedchamber."
Miguel cast her a knowing sneer, but did ease the pressure of the knife and his hand still on her left shoulder, "Snooping were you, little 'rata'?"
"No!" She retorted in pretence of indigence, "But you will certainly thank me that I discovered it." He gave her a questioning look, her presumption that he should feel indebted to her momentarily outweighed by his intrigue at what she'd found, her potential revelation. As he backed away from her completely, but still remained within a threatening proximity, he watched her eager scramble as she fumbled with the pouch on her utility belt, struggling to gain access. But once in, her nubile thief's fingers halted. "I am a loyal thief Señor Miguel---you will promise me that I will be protected for having revealed this to you?"
The older man simply nodded, his dark eyes fixed on that small oblong pouch at her right hip as slowly she took out what she had concealed in there. The crickets chirped maddeningly as the first thick spots of summer rain started.
* * *
New Orleans Guild safe-house, just off Canal Street...
His finger tapped impatiently on the window frame, before pacing back over to the table to take up his vacated chair next to Thierry. The rabble rousing street partiers had long since passed this way, not leaving much of their number behind, just the odd group; loud adolescents outside the barber shop on the corner of the street, swinging off the red and white striped balusters that supported the sagging yawing, gulping at their watered-down whiskey and cheep beers. Streamers and glitter flakes lay like the worn and vanquished across the pavement and vaguely glimmering tarmac of the road whilst the pounding hammer of a repetitive dance tune bounced off the façades of the surrounding buildings, not the more easy-on-the-ear manipulation of the balck and white ivories on some aged bar upright.
After beating out his discordant rhythm on the table with enough insistence to make even the most doleful friend riled, Jean-Luc made to stand from his chair again but was stopped by a sturdy hand on his arm.
"Jean, will yo' jus' stay still fo' five seconds?" Thierry chastised patiently with a half laugh as he looked up at his friend, poised half-way out of his seat.
"Oui, oui." Jean-Luc mumbled as he conceded to his second-in-command, sitting down again. "Je m'excuse---after dat dud lead yesterday, I'm jus' hopin' dis one pays up."
"Christophe's a reliable man," Thierry assured him dutifully, "We always been able t' rely on de homme in de pas'---if 'e says he saw Remy, den 'e saw 'im." He certainly had an unerring confidence about him.
Jean-Luc leant back in his chair, inclining his head back as he rested on the support. He let out a long, tired breath as he gazed at the embossed pattern above him; nicotine stained in a dirty sallow, the swirl grooved plaster. "Yaw righ'."
Thierry watched his old friend for a while longer before speaking again, his manner easy as their fair city, whilst the man his steady light eyes studied was as tense as a cello string. It was very much in contrast to the man he'd known all his life and it wasn't often he witnessed him like this. The occasions he had were few and far between but all had one thing in common. Somewhere in the mess was always that lanky, auburn haired, devil- eyed heap-o'-trouble. "Yo' gotta get yawself t'gether Jean." He said firmly
"What yo' talkin' 'bout---I am t'gether."
But Thierry carried on, disregarding Jean-Luc's plea to the contrary. "De clan see' yo' like dis an' dey gonna start askin' questions. You know dat."
"There ain't no damn reason fo' questions homme." Jean-Luc replied in his usual sonorously stern tone. He fixed Thierry with the iron hardness of his mocha eyes as he leant forwards onto the simple round table. "I'm perfectly on top o' dis---yo' got dat?"
"Loud an' clear, Jean." The sandy haired man replied soberly; a casual hand up in recognition, "Loud an' clear."
"If you hear anythin' or anyone dat says uddahwise, I wanna know 'bout it." This time a simple nod was suffice to satisfy. He didn't need doubt or dissention within his own ranks at this---delicate---time for his clan. Things were unstable enough as it was even to the point that he had had to hide his relief when news of a sighting of his son had filtered through to him. But this was a time when his people needed to be shown uncompromising strength---any personal sensibilities simply didn't come into it.
"Sure t'ing mon ami." Thierry leaned forwards and gave him an affable slap on the shoulder, leaving his hand where it lay for a second, "Yo' know you can count on me." After a moment he let it fall and got up from his chair; not noticing the look that passed through his leader. That complete calm unsettled him, made him feel ill at ease, but only ended with him consciously trying to check the spectre of suspicion that he was reluctant to admit in his heart of hearts. But just then the creaking of the front door of the unassuming shop that they were roomed above broke through his thoughts.
Muffled voices floated up from the room below---one steady, measured in their questioning; the other frantic to relay information. There passed a few seconds of silence, perhaps whispering afoot, LeBeau's increasingly paranoid mind speculated. With a sudden eruption there was a thunderous banging, as someone clamoured their way eagerly up the staircase. Quickly followed by more behind them.
"...we've got a definite location!" Came a vaguely familiar light drawl from the other side of the door, exploding into loudness as the plain door was flung open. Jean-Luc joined Thierry standing as the foot-solider stormed into the room to announce her news.
"Where Jeanette?" Jean-Luc asked calmly as several other clan members filed into the more-or-less derelict room behind the woman; her creamed-coffee cheeks flushed scarlet from the run and the late summer air.
"Up on Bourbon." Pierre LeEnorme cut in to answer for her, stepping forwards from the gaggle of Guild men that had been waiting for word downstairs in the ex-Video hire store.
"Yo' sure 'bout dis mon amie?" Jean-Luc directed his query straight at Jeanette, blanking LeEnorme completely, paying no regard much to his contained chagrin.
"Oui Monsieur LeBeau." She said avidly like a child and nodded, her dark spiralled curls bobbing about her slim face energetically. "I definitely saw him enter---with the white-haired weather witch."
"Dey 'ave anyt'in' wit dem?" Thierry barged to the fore, his countenance eager.
"She---she had a bag." The woman shrugged and shook her head uncertainly; her meagre observance unable to provide them with more than that, much less than they wished.
Jean-Luc took a deep breath; to all outward appearances the product of weariness but in all truth a weight had been lifted...a pressure of guilt...fear. Slowly it flowed out, wistful in its voyage. "Alrigh'." He began firmly, snapping back into the mode, "You," He pointed sharply at LeEnorme, his first acknowledgment of the 'heavy' since he'd entered, "--- take a team. Get de 't'ing' from Remy an' bring it t' de Bayou. De rest of us---we goin' down there now." He scanned across all of the faces now crowding the room. There were small nods of agreement, mostly blank looks of received servitude. Whatever---it pleased LeBeau. "Okay---let's get movin'." He slapped his hands together sharply, like a signal; all Guild members on the move instantly at its indication.
Murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out, they failed to notice as the last two, Mauvais and LeBeau, held back for a moment.
"What 'bout de...uddah t'ing Jean?"
He wiped his had over his mouth and chin, ridding the perspiration. "We'll see mon ami." He replied after a moment of consideration. "We give her time t' come round."
Thierry cocked a knowing eyebrow, "An' if she don'?"
"Den I s'pose we do what we gotta do." Jean-Luc held Thierry's eye before they headed off after the rest of their team, towards the crypt were Lopez already waited.
-TBC-
Thank-you to Rat, girlonthem00, Koala-chan, turtle dove, LeochicX and The Frumious Bandersnatch!
A/N; The Notre Dame Cemetery is a figment of this author's imagination as is the Palais Napoleon on Bourbon Street. The names of the Jazz musicians mentioned were found in M. Ondaatje's novel 'Coming Through Slaughter'.
= Translated from Hispanic
Chapter.13.
New Orleans, Louisiana. Four days later...
The carnival was in full swing, rapturous and unrelenting; what Ororo had witnessed just over seven days ago was nothing compared to the explosive cavalcade she was peering down upon now. The flat metal slats of the slightly warped Venetian blind where open to their full extent, allowing the red acid spill of a flickering neon Budweiser sign to light the room, coming in to cover everything with thick crimson lines. It cut like thick laser lights through the warm, brown dimness of the moderately sized space. Ororo watched, with the steady dispassionate gaze of her cool blue eyes as the throng of the parade passed three stories below the tenement building that she and Remy where now holed up in since their arrival back in the Big Easy that afternoon. It was one of two 'safe-houses' that Remy had retained since his expulsion from the Guild and by extension the city, precisely for unlikely situations such as this. The other was on Bellville St, over the river in Algíers, a little more out of the way than this one, The Palais Napoleon, right in the heart of the French Quarter, on Bourbon St. A prime, if a little unsafe, location.
The dumb rhythm of the players pulsed through the walls of the old building, so much so that Ororo could feel its syncopation battering dully into her bear soles. It nearly implored her to pat them in time against the fuzz of the carpet. She was only stopped by the rustling interference of a conflicting tune, pouring in with a coating of soft static from an antique radio sat on the bureau against the far wall...
'...She takes, just like a woman,
Yes she does.
She makes love, just like a woman,
Yes she does.
And she aches, just like a woman
But she breaks, just like a little girl...'
Ororo turned from the window, to an extent blocking out the noise that flowed up from the street as she absently felt at her side, through the thick denim shirt that covered her sublimely, perfectly; the only item she had on after her shower. There was certainly still a tenderness there, where the branch had cracked into her rib, as there was on various other parts of her body that had suffered abrasions recently but having had the chance to recuperate, they weren't any where near as bad as they could have been.
They'd been lucky---damn lucky---even Remy had enough humility to admit that much. If it hadn't have been for their chance meeting with that boat on the Xingu, they'd have left their bodies in the rainforest. There was no denying that. The 'Rosie Celesta', as it sailed innocently down the expanse of the muddy river, had only just spotted the limp figure of a woman, slumped down in the silt, her short shock of white hair a beacon for them to follow. If it hadn't have been for that, they'd probably have sailed right past her; only by chance did the strong beam of their prow light glint against her platinum strands. Storm's attempt at a cry of help had certainly not been heard at all.
The boat's crew, made up of forest natives and biological researchers, the likes of which swarmed around that impressive place like the hoards of flies and bugs within it, had charitably taken good care of them. Using their collective knowledge on native remedies for their physical wounds and Remy's inexplicable fever, they'd helped them restore their strength as they headed gradually up the calm river, that turned every colour from bright sap green to the coyest of pinks, for the city of São Félix. They'd given them a cover story of course for why they where there and in such a state on discovery, knowing that the Professor-of-such-and-such university wouldn't work on them. A fairly tight-knit group of people as they were. Instead they'd painted themselves as adventure tourists, not uncommon in that part of the world. A convenient story had been weaved, the details of which were too pedestrian to repeat. But the box, the box had been explained simply as a trinket, bartered for on an encounter with a local tribe. Day's had past with the frustrating speed of a dismal Sunday, in extremely uncomfortable fortitude, but once they were sufficiently returned to health, they arrived without incident at the small city in the North of the Xingu region and found themselves able to 'hire' a light air craft to get back to Santa Maria das Barreiras, where the X-Jet awaited them. The creativity of desperation in the past had bode well for them both. As it had turned out, the God's had been smiling down on them once more and there was no situation that they would not eventually surmount.
So four days after they had obtained what they had risked life and limb for, they were back now, here in New Orleans, where the summer carnival was at full tilt and the hazy August dragged callously on like the last drunken party guest that resolutely refused to leave.
The hard drive of the high powered shower was nothing more than back ground noise as Ororo moved over to the double bed in the centre of the room that was decked with only the essentials; the bureau, bed, a wardrobe and a tiny bathroom---no hint of personalisation, no superfluous items necessary for comfort. The whirl of a creaky fan added to the ambiance as Storm sat down on the bed, crossing her long bare legs over one another as she took up the thin toothed black comb she'd previously abandoned and started to run it through her hair. Not that it really needed it, she had combed it to death already but she found the action cathartic, the scrape of the teeth like a massage on her scalp, leaving distinct separate tracks in its warm dampness. A sensation she could enjoy now that her locks were no longer quiet as plentiful, though she noticed they had grown somewhat even in the past week; the back reaching down to the base of her neck whilst her fringe had to be flicked to the side, the evidence of the slight kink within its growth obvious. Maybe she'd get it trimmed once they were back in New York...maybe she wouldn't.
It was nice to have such trivial concerns after the chaos of the last week, and that wasn't only this 'misadventure' they'd been sent on. They had almost not come back from it, that was true, but they'd 'almost' not survived a thousand other jaunts too, funnily enough it came with the territory when your gig was being a superhero. But to have failed on this one would have been a travesty. If she'd have lost Remy back there, there would have been no word with which to categorise her devastation...She shook her head as if to toss something loose. She couldn't let this rule her mind any longer. 'What if's' were no good to anyone, they would drive her insane and so was resolute to stop.
'...and she aches, just like a woman...'
She had fallen in love with him. There was nothing else for it. Of all the people in the world...
There was no other explanation or reason for it. Of course, she had always 'loved' him but it was something much more to be 'in love' with him. It was funny, that it had taken something so extreme to make her realise that that was what was going on; a gradual process that had none-the-less jumped up on her like a stalking tiger. The absolute last thing in the world that she had ever expected to happen...the last thing. How long had such a thing been stirring? She had never been one to take love, the passion of a lover lightly, and gave it even more sparsely and always, unfortunately, to her detriment. Falling for a smooth talking, sleek limbed Cajun charmer wasn't exactly the smartest move on her part, she thought wryly and sighed. But then, this was Remy; everything he was to people on the outside was nothing of what he was to her. Her best friend, her soul-mate, her comfort blanket when all else around her leaned on her for support, guidance and leadership...her lover?
Perhaps.
This was going to take Ororo Munroe, Mistress of Chronic Emotional Repression, some time to adjust to. A lot of time in fact...
She heard the shower clank to a halt, the high pitched beep of the off button ringing through. Her hand halted on her head and she brought the comb down halfway through its trek back, resting it for a moment in her lap before placing it back down onto the plain cotton sheet of the bed. She fixed her eyes on the white silk sheen of the bathroom door, the condensation of hot air clinging to it like a perspiring layer, as above the old wood framed fan with the latticed blades creaked around again and again and again...
*
Remy pulled his jeans on even though his skin was still a little damp. He pushed in the button above the zip and when he let them drop noticed that they hung quite low on his hips. He must have lost a little weight over the last week---or since he'd last used this place as a refuge, which had to be going on for three years now. The last time he'd seen his father in fact, before unexpected recent events. He tousled his hair with his hands, spraying water everywhere, sprinkler-like, not bothering to towel it dry. Rather he let it drip where it would. He was about to leave the room when he felt the furtive ripple of another jolt, sparking along with the rush of his blood. His hands scrunched into fists in an attempt to staunch the feeling that had been coming in waves ever since the initial fever had lifted. Being the stubborn man he was he'd said nothing of this to Ororo, or anyone else, least of all the people that had helped them to safety. It wasn't as if it was something he didn't recognise...
Taking in a deep breath he waited for a moment, lids loosely down, to let it pass, for he knew that it would. The fast hiss, the staunching of a sulphurous match in a puddle and it was gone. He swallowed down, the sudden excess of saliva sticky. Tentatively he reached up to grab the yellowed cord of the bathroom light, gave it a quick yet forceful tug and entered the main room, grabbing up a fresh towel and the small battery razor from the mirror shelf as he went. Leaving all thoughts behind him.
*
The tune plonking its way indolently from the metal grate on the front of the radio had changed now, skipping through the folk to the intricate weaving of jazz notes emerging from it as if bubbling up from the bottom of the swamp, transporting them through time to poor ramparts and slick hustlers on river steamers. Remy listened for a moment, just inside the door jamb of the bathroom, taking his time before he ventured to shift his gaze to Ororo as she sat on his bed, her long athletic legs free, one of his old shirts clinging over her curves, draped like the finest silk simply by virtue.
With a deft flick another noise entered the fray, the soft constant buzz of jostling blades inside the silver mesh head of his travel razor. Quickly and with no apparent rhyme or reason he ran the handy appliance over the thick growth that consumed his chin, cheeks and the top parts of his neck; revealing lighter patches of skin randomly until the whiteness of the porous material of the towel about his neck and shoulders was pebble-dashed with dark specs, like tiny bugs nesting, at some points gathering in thick clumps. Like a light bursting on to banish the black of a room he recognised the splintered old tune.
"'Since Mah Bes' Girl turned me Down.'---Bix Beiderbecke an' 'is Gang." He said with a note of triumph; his head cocked slightly as he listened, turning the razor off and tossing it down onto the bureau carelessly.
"And the year?" Ororo asked unexpectedly, genuinely curious as the recording was aged, blips and scratches strangely adding to its authenticity and character as one would expect, drawing Remy's attention away from the radio and the suddenly jaunty turn of the tune flowing from it.
"Nineteen...Twen'y Seven." He answered confidently without pause as he sauntered further into the room. Quickly he ruffled the black-speckled towel through his hair, not bothering to rid it of the stubble first. Such was his ungainly scruffiness at times, endearing as it was, it could not be doubted. He grazed a hand over the recently shaved area that retained the subtle buzz from the vibration of the razor; the whole bottom half of his face, free from the bristle as it was, still retained a greyish shadow as it always did. "Now dis," He started, jabbing an enthusiastic finger in the direction of the old radio, "DIS is what yo' call real music---de ol' Masonic on Perdido an' Rampart. Dat's where it really used t' kick it---all de greats played dere in their day." He dropped his head down, the top half of his body at an angle with the floor as the towel rubbed swiftly, more violently, muffling his words somewhat as he recanted names of men long gone, legends in their day. "Freddie Keppard, John Robichaux, 'Buddy' Bolden. You mention dem t' anyone in dis town, an' dey'll tell yo' some tales." He smiled as if at some private, amusing thought when his hands seemed to freeze, his attention caught; a sudden stop as he noticed something. The grey satchel sat, slumped in the corner of the room, looking totally innocuous. Its buckles loosely done up, it's lazily shape showing no indication of what it held inside.
Ororo turned and followed the line of his vision; even though she had had her back to him, she could sense something odd about his abrupt silence. Drawing in a breath to ask, it stilled when it fell upon the bag. She didn't need to. Instead she stood from the bed again, taking the comb with her and languidly drawing it through her hair once more with distracting charm. It was enough to take Remy's eyes and thoughts away from the contents of the bag and onto her. He let the towel slink back down around his neck for a moment before letting it slip to the floor randomly. He'd never been what one would call house-proud to add to everything else.
"So," Ororo started as she came to the window, "Have you decided?" She asked as she turned to face him, resting casually against the smooth sill.
Remy glanced back at the bag, "To be honest chère," He quickly faced her once more, "I ain't t'ought 'bout it too much."
"Not that it is important or anything." She raised a sharply caustic eyebrow as she crossed her arms over her chest, off-handily waving the comb to the side, holding it aloft.
"Now don' be sarcastic Stormy," He grinned, "It don' suit you."
Ororo shook her head, a look of exasperation marking her features. Not in a good way either. "Do not try to dodge the subject."
"Who's dodgin'?" Remy splayed his hands and shrugged his shoulders in pretence of innocence.
"Do not play games Remy," She suddenly looked concerned, shifting her gaze to the floor as she unlocked her arms, placing her hands on the flat of the sill behind her; her head slightly bowed. "This is serious," She jerked up to look at him; eyes sparkling like ice in the glint of an unhindered sun, "---just look what it has done to you, it---."
"It ain't done nuhddin'." He cut in, taking on a sharpened harsh tone; his demeanour changing in an instant.
"Nothing?" Ororo was almost incredulous, "You can barely go near the thing-- -."
"It been gettin' bedduh---I don' feel it so much now." He willed the sensation in his hands to mute, imagined dipping them in a pool of fresh, cool water. If he could think it away it would go. He tried his best to convince himself.
"You may be able to lie with the best of them Remy LeBeau but they do not work with me---I know you too well."
"Mores de pity." He mumbled and then flashed her a crocked, hopefully appeasing smile. "I didn' mean---."
"I know what you meant Remy." She pre-empted shortly, her stately aloofness creeping back in; her glare sedated but a glare none-the-less. Quickly she glanced down at the floor before a flicker of emotion over-came her and turned to face the window once more, taking up her previous position. "For everything we have been through, and all my intimate knowledge...at times it feels as though I do not know the first thing about you. All the trust given unquestioningly, and sometimes..." That fact hurt all the more now. But what happened back there, it wasn't one way traffic...
"Oh yah, I fo'got---yo' de mos' open person I evah met." Remy shot back bitingly, instantly regretting his sudden flash of temper. But he was thankful that she didn't bother to respond. "Dis is crazy," He hissed to himself through a sucked in breath, giving a disappointed shake of his head. An argument, the direction this conversation was in free-fall towards, was not what he wanted. He gazed over at her; the red light catching her full on so that her sable skin glowed with it, basked in it. He found himself holding onto the top bar of the bedstead to his left, as if were he to let go his knees would buckle, sending him crashing down. Resistance was futile, he acknowledged painfully. He had to go to her--- behaving like this...it was simply pointless. If she pushed him away then it was a risk he was willing to take. But he had to know if this sudden whirlwind was just that and would cease as quickly as it came. A connection more attuned than anything he had ever known passed between them in that temple, when they had aided each other to cheat a certain death. Whatever happened after tonight, he had to know...
Ororo tossing the redundant comb down and lent on the window sill, not so much watching the revellers this time around as running her eyes over the rusty balustrade that ran around the tenements small balcony; the street signs and metal plated adverts, like printers original sheets that were bleached from the sun, rendering them in pastel colours; ghosts of their former glory through the rain of ticker tape. The sky was turning purplish blue over the clouding haze of street and carnival lights, strewn on cables above the partiers, styled like Chinese paper lamps in green purple and gold. The tread on the carpet told her that he was coming to her long before the feel of his hands, cupping gently over her hips and the return of the stale cigarette scent from the couple he'd had before his shower; bitter tobacco, in its devouring opaqueness. Blankly, she continued to stare out at the street but registered nothing, letting her hands fall down to cover his as they sat as heavy as lead. A welcome weight.
Remy lent his now fairly smooth chin on her shoulder, finding a home in the curve, naturally letting his body press to hers, thankful that she did try to pull away. The frisson hit him immediately, the wanton ache that flowed from her to him and back again; this building need indescribable and undeniable. What had changed over the last week neither could say, or be sure, but something certainly had... "I'm sorry chère---but if yo' ain't noticed, Remy's stuck between a rock an' a 'ard place righ' now. I didn' mean t' be a dick." His lips came up close to her ear, breath whistled past, "Forgive me?"
"It is okay." She offered gently; recent events---of all kinds---had taken their toll on them both. Remy shifted his hands on her hips slightly, ruffling her shirt; the jutting bone telling beneath his fingers. They moved as if they were about to attempt to lift the thin denim material, but stopped just short, remaining where they were.
"How long will we have to stay here?" Ororo asked, focusing her mind, bringing a semblance of normality to the proceedings; though it didn't escape Remy that the question had a note of breathiness in it somewhere. She squeezed her hands over his as if urging them to travel without wanting to say so, wanting them to pick up where he'd backed off; letting him know that it was okay. Forget needing time to fathom this, she was lost in it here and now, on a sultry night in New Orleans. His fingers moved softly but still refused to act.
"Until we decide what we gon' do," He said quietly, urging control from somewhere as he finally saw fit to answer her; tobacco warmth stirring against her soft cocoa neck. The witch was tempting him too much... "Or, 'til dey come lookin' fo' us. It won't take dem long t' finger out dat we back in town." He was correct in his former presumption, he couldn't resist this. Now that he was holding her again, openly basking in her presence like never before, he didn't think he'd ever be able to let go again; his hands expressing a possessive mania all of their own. He never wanted to let go...ever. That rain perfume was still there with the sandalwood and the more clinical scent of soap as he brushed his lips up her neck, inhaling in at the same time. Everything about her held him in her sway. "Mon Dieu girl." He sighed just beneath her ear as if in discomfort mixed with a kind of bitter-sweet disbelief. "Tell me you wan' dis as much as I do..." He pressed his lips lightly to her skin, feeling the shudder, relishing it. "Please..."
Ororo found herself dizzy with the pounding beat from the frantic musicians playing below and the sensuous creep of his hands down past her hips, quickly finding their way to the thick hem of the denim shirt. Unconscionable was she by this time for that's where she left them, moving her own to grip at the sill of the window as she let herself be lost in his attentions. The comb knocked to the floor, unnoticed. It had to be admitted that they hadn't shared so much as a touch since their longing affirmation after escaping death. But now felt as good a time as any to pick up from where they'd left off...His plea swam through her head as sweet as any music around them, that assaulted from all angles and she yearned for his hands to reach up from where they currently lay, resisting their desire to ride underneath her shirt, higher up her legs. But she couldn't resist the urge to part her long lithe limbs, just a little. "Remy...I think you know the answer to that already. Because if you do not by now, then you are a fool..." She felt his soft breathless laugh on her neck followed by the brief graze of his teeth, prompting her to reach behind her and sink one hand into his still wet locks, letting the cool drips cover her palm. At that moment, this precise point in time she knew for sure; there was no way on earth that this was the deep set ice of too long alone. Cheap thrills and the fleeting touch of a lover could be found anywhere; close friendships were not jeopardised on such trivial things. Especially one that had endured so much...too much.
"Mebbe I am a fool..." He murmured in lust un-contented, "Fo' ignorin' you dese las' few months...chèrie." The tender name was practically growled through his huskiness into her delicately crafted lobe as he took heart enough to push up the edge of the shirt, damp, water-soft hands riding along the dark amber skin, stuttering up as they stuck in traction.
Ororo rested one leg on tip-toe, letting it fall to the side like a gate on hinges as a clever hand moved inwards. She caught the gasp on the tip of her tongue, lightly resting between two sets of pristine teeth; almost biting down onto it. Trumpets jostled with each other in the background; piercing in maddening desire. With a flowing manoeuvre she turned around to face him; his hands slipping back up to the outside of her thighs, gliding up briefly to slide over her bare buttocks and then back down again. Her hands linked roughly at the back of his head, pulling at his hair as he yanked her legs further apart and simultaneously lifted her, pushing further into her domain as he sat her on the warm plastic of the window sill at her back, making her gasp with fear and anticipation of the unknown.
She found herself smiling as they held that position, still as statues for a moment apart from heaving chests, the rush overpowering for both of them as their eyes locked. The red of the neon sign outside made the solid black of Gambit's orbs into a swirl of colour, set against the ruby jewel in their centres that were lit like the fierceness of hot coals. In the pull of passion their lips crushed together; their kiss rabid and full. She hooked her long legs up, above his hips, locking them about his waist.
"Remy..." She rasped, her voice broken as for a moment their lips parted, only to join again ardently, desperately. All the longing in that rendition of his name provoked him forwards; his fingers digging into her thighs as they clenched at the touch, muscles tensed.
"Say it 'Ro..." He shuddered a breath close to her mouth, catching them again in a kiss because he could not help but, "I wanna 'ere yo' say you want me...dat's all I need t' hear..."
Ororo closed her eyes as she tasted the bitter leaves, her head tilted as she smiled again against his lips, letting him feel it. She unlocked her hands, instead wrapping her arms completely around his neck, weaving them over one another in the infallibility of a lover's embrace. With a slow roll of her hips, she intoned, with a quiet vividness, "I want this...I want you, Remy...I want you so much, you have no idea..."
"Oh I t'ink I do 'Ro...I t'ink I do..." The unbridled zeal of his building passion passed through him as he kissed her hard; that sunrise in his mind again; the swamp morning bright, clear as if it were before him now. But this time there would be no walking away.
* * *
A crypt in the Notre Dame Cemetery, the outskirts of the New Orleans Bayou...
Cross legged and back crooked over; Señor Pedro Velasquez Lopez sat on the ground, staring obliquely ahead of him through single vision. The small velvet covered cushion beneath saved him from the uncomfortable severity of the hard ground, though many of his deputies weren't quite so lucky. There were seven of them with his currently, sat either side of him, poker- straight and as stoic as one would expect when faced with a full 'battalion' of New Orleans foot soldiers behind and in front of them. It had been a conspicuous choice for Jean-Luc to decide that the central crypt of Notre Dame cemetery, one of New Orleans many 'cities of the dead', the final resting place of generations of the LeBeau clan, would be an ideal place to hand over the coveted Carcoccia.
There was undeniably a sense of intimidation here, even Lopez couldn't dispute that; the lines of stone caskets emitting an air of ancestral respect that the rival clan couldn't ignore. They had certainly set out to go trough with this with as much dignity as they could muster. Lopez and his ilk had to begrudgingly profess admiration for their guile. All about them lay their past dead, two uniform rows lining the thick walls that for all their sturdiness had at last succumb to the invading moisture of the surrounding swamp; gleaning in random patches as it coursed down the brickwork, patterns of green algae. The whole structure was on a slight tilt in fact, the left side subsiding into the unsteady earth, the sponge- like ground reclaiming it, swallowing it bit by bit, year by year. One day, none of this would remain.
He cast his one good eye slowly over the horizontal stone figures, atop of their solid coffins---in death as they never were in life; their grandeur posthumously granted. As it was with all figures of supposed veneration. Gradually his careful gaze fell on the large opening at the far end of the candle lit room, whereon a young dark featured woman appeared in his eye line. She waited, close to but not resting on the sturdy doorjamb; simply waiting for instruction, her hands folded in an obedient, subservient manner in front of her. The signal passed so swiftly as not to be discernable; a quick glimmer, a fleeting twitch told her to leave. She was not needed here anymore and was more than happy to oblige to his wish that she make herself scares. Take word outside is what was passed. And so she would.
As she disappeared into the blackness of the space beyond, Lopez thought of her no more, turning back to gaze distractedly ahead of him; a dry discreet cough shattering the quiet, coming from somewhere on his left hand side; its origin indeterminate. Absently he stroked at his bristly greying beard; running the leather through with a scratching sound, wondering how long they would have to be here. It had taken him no time at all to organise the mass excursion when he had received word to get to New Orleans post-haste; the message having been communicated that Gambit and his weather manipulating companion had been spotted in São Félix---looking rather worse for ware---two days ago. Jean-Luc had been---surprised---to say the least that Lopez and several of his flunkies, his entire inner circle in fact, even his despised older brother, had unexpectedly arrived in the city. Though he was even more suspicious that they had come alone and none of the representatives of the other Guilds involved in this debacle had yet to show themselves. But Lopez had his reasons and was not in that much of a hurry to put LeBeau's mind at rest.
An hour-glass sat at the top end of the crypt, behind the place that would be graced by Jean-Luc's 'privy council'; the golden sand slipping in its measured journey through the slim eyelet of space between to bell masses. The massive object that denoted the passing of twenty-four hours had been tipped in its solid mahogany frame by an anonymous flunky when the two parties had entered the chamber; though it seemed to Lopez only a fraction of the twinkling grains that appeared precious in the candle glow as they ran, systematically dripping, down to the bottom cavity. But over an hour had passed as the men and women sat in limbo, unaware of how long they would be here.
Again the San Diego leader moved his shifty eye about the room, for perhaps the hundredth time; the New Orleans clan that formed a steady uniform row in front of the opposite row of grand coffins, covered by their jade green robes, lined with an ostentatious rim of real gold thread, remained silent, their faces shaded by the gaping hoods of their ceremonial wear. The ones that sat behind them were similar in their wears and disposition and in an-- -unusual---display of respect, none seemed to be armed. Old ways were not quite as dead as many feared. Though Lopez was certain there would be scores of armed and eager to kill 'soldiers' elsewhere in the crypt or maybe outside where he had been informally instructed to leave the majority of his entourage.
He took a deep breath of balmy air, full with the stifling aroma of candle wax, the notion conspicuous in the quiet; the sound of someone else shifting on the stone floor and then silence. For thieves patience was indeed a virtue.
* * *
Outside...
Miguel Velasquez Lopez paced at the side of the north wall of the sunken crypt, only just holding back from muttering to himself. His internal dialogue ranting at full flow in his insecurity. The long brittle yellow grasses rustled dryly as his legs cut swathes through them; the fifteen other San Diego thieves watching him with a discretion that pretended that they were not. Some stood, other sat idly on tilting tombstones smoking, whilst the majority hung lazily off the sides of the five jeeps that had been provided for them to journey out here; legs hanging out of open doors or over the sides of the thick bars of the frame. Idle chatter present but hushed in accordance with their revered locale; whispered jokes, stunted laughter, crickets were rife.
The thickset, phlegmatic man, who mirrored his younger brother in almost every instance, perhaps a little greyer, cracked the knuckles on each of his hands alternately as he continued to push back and forth through the unkempt grass. Something about this whole set up sat uneasily with him. And for once it wasn't only as a result of the long running feud between the two siblings. The characterisation of their relationship that ran like a dark ever-present undercurrent; never spoken but never forgotten, never ignored. Certain facts, the way Pedro had approached the entire thing was simply...suspect somehow. And as he came back up the side of the crypt and up close to the unguarded entrance, the cause of no small part of his consternation emerged from the double breasted opening. Señorita Jacqueline Quixote.
As the young girl began to walk towards the rest of the group, close to the cars, Miguel nodded to her, in that pertinent way of jutting out the chin, indicating that he wanted words with her. She turned on her heel immediately, trying to suppress a sly smile. This was just too easy, the doppelgänger thought to herself as she came to a rest a yard or so away from the older Lopez brother. 'Putty in her hands' was more than apt.
"Yes." Again, she waited obediently, this time her hands clasped behind her back, legs slightly apart in the stiff stance of an army private.
"What's going on in there?" Miguel asked curtly as she came close and settled to a stop.
The dark girl shook her head tightly, with distinct discipline. "Nothing." She replied, "Until Jean-Luc arrives and we hear word of Gambit, I don't suppose anything will." Just the ghost of a piqued look ran across her face, her brow 'wincing', before she turned, as if to head back towards the group.
He caught it. As was intended. "What is it?" Miguel asked suspiciously; her quick rise to Pedro's close confidant, a process that seemed to have hastened ten-fold since the discovery of the Spanish map, enough to have the wily elder brother on edge; any reason to doubt in truth, he took it for all its worth. He noted the sudden look of nervousness in her large dark eyes, that agedness that oft characterised them masked by it as if a sheet were thrown over.
"I should not say." 'Jacqueline' replied, almost defiantly, but not too much. She didn't want to push it. The woman deserved an Oscar.
Miguel regarded her for a moment; calculating eyes intense as he ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom teeth, contemplating. Finally he nodded his head, jutting it in a clear direction over to a collection of high headstones and a small solid tomb opposite the LeBeau crypt and then started for it. Mystique followed through the caressing stalks, that cunning quirk on her mouth quelled once more. But it didn't take long for it to contort into an open gape of surprise as Lopez grabbed hold of her arm once they were just around the cover of one of the leaning grey tablets.
Swinging her around Miguel slammed the young girl into its lichen encrusted surface, pinning her up against it. Mystique bit at the inside of her cheek to quash her anger and resist retaliating; she could snap this bastard's neck with the flick of her wrist if she so wished and was bitterly sorry that she couldn't. Not yet at any rate.
"I don't care for your conniving snaking up the Clan's ladder Señorita," He seethed in her face, his browning teeth gritted, "Any whore worth their salt can sleep their way to the top, he sniped bitterly, but all that aside, what's going on?"
She shook her head energetically, yellow and white flecks of lichen crumbling off the headstone of John Mills Esq., 1824 to 1898, etched deeply but worn down into near invisibility, to fall like confetti into her jet black locks, "Nothing Señor, I swear on the---."
Miguel made a gruff noise of frustration, pushing his hands into her shoulders even more so, putting pressure on the nerves above the bones on each side as he leant his considerable bulk into her; an action to which even Mystique couldn't help but give a genuine wince, propelling her inner anger to ferocious levels. "Something is going on and I want to know what it is Jacqueline," Mystique heard a sharp zing from somewhere below as he relinquished his hold on her right shoulder and reached into his uniform for something, drawing it out with frightening speed. "Now, tell me what you know---because this whole deal stinks and I want to know what's gone rancid." His usual conspicuous flaccidness showing for what it truly was; a guise that was nothing more than to lure. She gained a new respect for his cunning there and then.
Though she couldn't actually feel the knife, the definite indentation in the tough cloth of her uniform, just beneath the end of her metal breast plate, pushed against her stomach dangerously. Just one expert shove, which she was now in no doubt he was more than capable of, and irreparable damage would be inflicted. This only made it all the sweeter. "He will kill me." She whimpered, her breath shuddering past her lips. The further burrow of the blade made clear his impatience as it came perilously close to cutting through the substantial weave. "Okay, okay!" She conceded. "But I only do this for the good of the Guild."
"What do you mean?" He rasped.
"We can not have traitors leading us." She hissed in a fearful whisper, her eyes wondering the white misty murk of the quiet graveyard as if searching for prying eyes and ears. "Two days ago, I found something in your brother's bedchamber."
Miguel cast her a knowing sneer, but did ease the pressure of the knife and his hand still on her left shoulder, "Snooping were you, little 'rata'?"
"No!" She retorted in pretence of indigence, "But you will certainly thank me that I discovered it." He gave her a questioning look, her presumption that he should feel indebted to her momentarily outweighed by his intrigue at what she'd found, her potential revelation. As he backed away from her completely, but still remained within a threatening proximity, he watched her eager scramble as she fumbled with the pouch on her utility belt, struggling to gain access. But once in, her nubile thief's fingers halted. "I am a loyal thief Señor Miguel---you will promise me that I will be protected for having revealed this to you?"
The older man simply nodded, his dark eyes fixed on that small oblong pouch at her right hip as slowly she took out what she had concealed in there. The crickets chirped maddeningly as the first thick spots of summer rain started.
* * *
New Orleans Guild safe-house, just off Canal Street...
His finger tapped impatiently on the window frame, before pacing back over to the table to take up his vacated chair next to Thierry. The rabble rousing street partiers had long since passed this way, not leaving much of their number behind, just the odd group; loud adolescents outside the barber shop on the corner of the street, swinging off the red and white striped balusters that supported the sagging yawing, gulping at their watered-down whiskey and cheep beers. Streamers and glitter flakes lay like the worn and vanquished across the pavement and vaguely glimmering tarmac of the road whilst the pounding hammer of a repetitive dance tune bounced off the façades of the surrounding buildings, not the more easy-on-the-ear manipulation of the balck and white ivories on some aged bar upright.
After beating out his discordant rhythm on the table with enough insistence to make even the most doleful friend riled, Jean-Luc made to stand from his chair again but was stopped by a sturdy hand on his arm.
"Jean, will yo' jus' stay still fo' five seconds?" Thierry chastised patiently with a half laugh as he looked up at his friend, poised half-way out of his seat.
"Oui, oui." Jean-Luc mumbled as he conceded to his second-in-command, sitting down again. "Je m'excuse---after dat dud lead yesterday, I'm jus' hopin' dis one pays up."
"Christophe's a reliable man," Thierry assured him dutifully, "We always been able t' rely on de homme in de pas'---if 'e says he saw Remy, den 'e saw 'im." He certainly had an unerring confidence about him.
Jean-Luc leant back in his chair, inclining his head back as he rested on the support. He let out a long, tired breath as he gazed at the embossed pattern above him; nicotine stained in a dirty sallow, the swirl grooved plaster. "Yaw righ'."
Thierry watched his old friend for a while longer before speaking again, his manner easy as their fair city, whilst the man his steady light eyes studied was as tense as a cello string. It was very much in contrast to the man he'd known all his life and it wasn't often he witnessed him like this. The occasions he had were few and far between but all had one thing in common. Somewhere in the mess was always that lanky, auburn haired, devil- eyed heap-o'-trouble. "Yo' gotta get yawself t'gether Jean." He said firmly
"What yo' talkin' 'bout---I am t'gether."
But Thierry carried on, disregarding Jean-Luc's plea to the contrary. "De clan see' yo' like dis an' dey gonna start askin' questions. You know dat."
"There ain't no damn reason fo' questions homme." Jean-Luc replied in his usual sonorously stern tone. He fixed Thierry with the iron hardness of his mocha eyes as he leant forwards onto the simple round table. "I'm perfectly on top o' dis---yo' got dat?"
"Loud an' clear, Jean." The sandy haired man replied soberly; a casual hand up in recognition, "Loud an' clear."
"If you hear anythin' or anyone dat says uddahwise, I wanna know 'bout it." This time a simple nod was suffice to satisfy. He didn't need doubt or dissention within his own ranks at this---delicate---time for his clan. Things were unstable enough as it was even to the point that he had had to hide his relief when news of a sighting of his son had filtered through to him. But this was a time when his people needed to be shown uncompromising strength---any personal sensibilities simply didn't come into it.
"Sure t'ing mon ami." Thierry leaned forwards and gave him an affable slap on the shoulder, leaving his hand where it lay for a second, "Yo' know you can count on me." After a moment he let it fall and got up from his chair; not noticing the look that passed through his leader. That complete calm unsettled him, made him feel ill at ease, but only ended with him consciously trying to check the spectre of suspicion that he was reluctant to admit in his heart of hearts. But just then the creaking of the front door of the unassuming shop that they were roomed above broke through his thoughts.
Muffled voices floated up from the room below---one steady, measured in their questioning; the other frantic to relay information. There passed a few seconds of silence, perhaps whispering afoot, LeBeau's increasingly paranoid mind speculated. With a sudden eruption there was a thunderous banging, as someone clamoured their way eagerly up the staircase. Quickly followed by more behind them.
"...we've got a definite location!" Came a vaguely familiar light drawl from the other side of the door, exploding into loudness as the plain door was flung open. Jean-Luc joined Thierry standing as the foot-solider stormed into the room to announce her news.
"Where Jeanette?" Jean-Luc asked calmly as several other clan members filed into the more-or-less derelict room behind the woman; her creamed-coffee cheeks flushed scarlet from the run and the late summer air.
"Up on Bourbon." Pierre LeEnorme cut in to answer for her, stepping forwards from the gaggle of Guild men that had been waiting for word downstairs in the ex-Video hire store.
"Yo' sure 'bout dis mon amie?" Jean-Luc directed his query straight at Jeanette, blanking LeEnorme completely, paying no regard much to his contained chagrin.
"Oui Monsieur LeBeau." She said avidly like a child and nodded, her dark spiralled curls bobbing about her slim face energetically. "I definitely saw him enter---with the white-haired weather witch."
"Dey 'ave anyt'in' wit dem?" Thierry barged to the fore, his countenance eager.
"She---she had a bag." The woman shrugged and shook her head uncertainly; her meagre observance unable to provide them with more than that, much less than they wished.
Jean-Luc took a deep breath; to all outward appearances the product of weariness but in all truth a weight had been lifted...a pressure of guilt...fear. Slowly it flowed out, wistful in its voyage. "Alrigh'." He began firmly, snapping back into the mode, "You," He pointed sharply at LeEnorme, his first acknowledgment of the 'heavy' since he'd entered, "--- take a team. Get de 't'ing' from Remy an' bring it t' de Bayou. De rest of us---we goin' down there now." He scanned across all of the faces now crowding the room. There were small nods of agreement, mostly blank looks of received servitude. Whatever---it pleased LeBeau. "Okay---let's get movin'." He slapped his hands together sharply, like a signal; all Guild members on the move instantly at its indication.
Murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out, they failed to notice as the last two, Mauvais and LeBeau, held back for a moment.
"What 'bout de...uddah t'ing Jean?"
He wiped his had over his mouth and chin, ridding the perspiration. "We'll see mon ami." He replied after a moment of consideration. "We give her time t' come round."
Thierry cocked a knowing eyebrow, "An' if she don'?"
"Den I s'pose we do what we gotta do." Jean-Luc held Thierry's eye before they headed off after the rest of their team, towards the crypt were Lopez already waited.
-TBC-