Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Too bad though...

Author's Note: Although this is technically a sequel to Tangled Lines, it's not a necessity to have read it in order to understand this story. Quick recap, Rogue has left the X-Men and is now working as an FBI agent. She's in a bizarre triangle with Remy and her partner, Damon Price. Also, I'll be writing with minimal accents. It distracts me. :-) Although set after Australia, this is an AU. (I'll be taking liberties with the characters' pasts.)

Prologue

The night air was hot and sticky, not unusual in this city that had been ravaged by the forces of nature so many years ago. Despite the weather, the young mutant was covered in black from head to toe. It saddened him to see the desolate streets that had once been so full of life. Flashes of memories danced through his mind, thinking back to happier times. His friends always teased him for his nostalgic nature. A smile came to his face as he turned a corner where he had first learned how to pick a lock. The house was now vacant, a mere shell of its once glorious self. A chill of sadness travelled down his spine. He pulled his trench coat tight hoping to erase the cold empty feeling.

"Merde," he cursed to himself. On any normal night he would have been living it up in the nightlife of Bourbon Street. By now, he would have found himself some lady to swoon and inevitably bring home. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by faint crack in the background. Most men would have not have even heard it, but to a trained member of the Thieves Guild, it was as loud as thunder.

Crack. He continued walking further into the abandoned maze of homes, despite the realization that the sound was getting closer. Whoever was following him certainly wasn't trying to hide it. They were making a horrible mistake though, trying to corner a man in his own backyard He knew these streets like the back of his own hand. His pace quickened. Crack. Closer and closer. He turned a corner that led to a wider street. If this bastard was looking for a fight, then he was more than willing to give him one. If not for fleeting moments of light from the pale moon that shone through thick gray clouds, the area would have been pitch black. He stopped in his tracks, gripping his fists tightly. Crack. Right behind him. It was now or never. He tightened his jaw, turning on his heels.

Nothing. His eyes hurriedly scanned the area, straining to see in the darkness. Living all these years in this God forsaken city had made him paranoid. He let out a silent sigh, relaxing just a bit. He let out a chuckle, "You must be going crazy." It was definitely time to get a drink. He turned in the direction that would get him to the nearest seedy bar. He had the perfect one in mind. Cheap whiskey and even cheaper women. That was the last thought on his mind before the whole world went dark forever.

It was only fitting - to die where his life began. New Orleans. It was unforgiving. It was cursed. It was home.

News of the murder travelled fast. By daylight, the Thieves Guild was out for blood. Whoever was brazen enough to kill one of the family would soon meet a similar fate. The mansion's servants knew to lay low when their master was in an agitated mood. He was the patriarch of this family, and the guild members turned to him for justice. He planned on delivering nothing less than that.

"Father," a man called out to him, his footsteps echoing through the colossal hall. "Don't you think we should call him? He has a right to know." The elder man stood silent, staring out the window. His son spoke again in hopes of reasoning with his father. "Pierre was like another brother to us." He paused for a moment to fight back the tears. He continued, this time in a whisper. "He has a right to know."

"Make the call."

"Thank you, father." He didn't expect a response. He knew his father well enough to know not to speak to him any more. He had gotten his wish. Once his father walked out of the room, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Swiftly, he dialed a sequence of numbers that he had never thought he would use again. He waited with bated breath for a familiar voice.

"Hello?"

He couldn't respond at first. It was like talking to a ghost.

"Hello?" the man repeated.

Finally, he replied. "Remy, it's Henri. Are you sitting down?"