Notes:

FenellaG: Thank you! I hope the story doesn't disappoint, and lives up to the original! Guest: Hi! Good question! I definitely think this will probably be between 20-30 chapters, maybe about 25. Much longer than the original fic, that's for sure! I've written 203 pages, and it's very close to being done. It might be about 250 pages max. But I am terrible with numbers and making guesses like these, so I might be way out! ^^;

Thanks for reading, guys, and please, as always, read, review, and enjoy! :) x

CITY OF LIGHTS

Chapter 2

Anna Darkhölme sitting in the back of the Volkswagen, hands in her lap, watching the streets of Paris slide by, green-eyed gaze as blank as the sea on a calm day.

The older man sat sedately beside her leaned over and asked:

"Are you quite all right, Fraulein Darkhölme? You seem a little distracted this afternoon."

She looked back over at him briefly, this distinguished man with his salt-and-pepper hair and his spotless black military uniform, genuine concern etched onto his thin, sallow face. Once upon a time he'd been a celebrated war hero, a close confidant to the Fuhrer himself. Then his wife had died; and he had retired from public life. Highly decorated he may have been, yet oddly, this was his first active role in the European war since it had even begun.

A tight smile touched Anna's lips, and she turned back to the road, replying softly in German:

"I am quite well, thank you, Obergruppenführer Wagner."

Her tone had been carefully pitched to convey neutrality; but he knew her enough by now to see through it.

"You do not like Paris, my dear?" he asked mildly.

"Paris is a beautiful place."

"Yet it seems to make you a little sad," he noted. She almost looked back over her shoulder at him, surprised by his astuteness.

"Not sad," she replied decidedly. "A little bittersweet, perhaps."

"Ah." The leather upholstery crackled as he settled back into his seat. "I see. Perhaps I can guess at the source of this sentiment. Paris being the city of romance that it is, perhaps you met some lover here once. And perhaps you both parted unwillingly. And now you gaze upon these streets you once walked together, and you feel a little pang of nostalgia. Am I correct, Fraulein Darkhölme?"

Anna stared out the window, her reflection quirking a wry little smile. This man, her unlikely benefactor, never failed to unnerve her with his incisiveness.

"How well you know me, Obergruppenführer Wagner," she murmured with a sarcastic little lilt. "Is there nothing I can hide from you?"

But the words merely made him laugh.

"My dear, I believe half your life is made of secrets. I don't doubt I shall have a great deal of enjoyment trying to unravel them all."

The statement made her shudder inwardly. Was he being sinister… or was this merely jest? She still wasn't quite sure.

"Ah," he exclaimed after a moment of penetrating silence, "La Rue de Châteaudun! We are nearing our destination now, I do believe!"

Anna said nothing, her eyes scaling the grey stone townhouses with their shuttered windows and their pretty balconies, their ornate doors. Every so often the scenery was broken up by the blood red slash of a Nazi flag draped proudly over the side of a building, or fluttering from a lamppost. It was such a striking counterpart to the greyness of the architecture, bold as a streak of red lipstick against the pale, pale skin of some seductress. And then there were the people on the sidewalks, silent and huddled in on themselves, stopping only to stare dumbly at this unusual sight – an ostentatious Nazi convoy. It was strange, she thought, to be back here after 8 long years. How times had changed! She remembered how decadent the city had seemed to her back then, to someone who'd come straight from Prohibition-stifled New York. She remembered champagne, and good food, and the kind of love-making that she'd never experienced before or since, and— But that was a past long gone now, there was no point dwelling on that.

She opened up her purse reflexively and took out a cigarette, a lighter. She lit up quietly and sank back into her seat, ignoring the streets outside the window now. These feelings were too present, too visceral. Surprisingly visceral, considering the years of healing she thought she'd gone through.

"How soon?" she asked her companion flatly.

"A couple more minutes, my dear," he answered serenely. "Is that not so, Robert?"

"Yes," their driver confirmed in Gallic-accented German. "A couple of minutes more, if there is no more traffic."

-oOo-

The scrape of curtains opening and a blinding shaft of winter sunlight roused Remy LeBeau from a deep and dreamless sleep; and he twisted onto his side with a groan, wondering why the hell his head was hurting so much.

"Time to wake up, Monsieur Remy!" a jovial, feminine voice proclaimed. "It's nearly midday! We're late!"

Midday? Wha— Oh. Yeah.

"Merde."

Remy swivelled onto his back, only to have his bed partner launch herself right on top of him.

"Jesus, Jeanne-Marie, you tryin' to kill me?" he gasped, winded. The woman chuckled and ran a finger across his clavicle.

"Just trying to wake you up the best way I know how," she grinned. "We're supposed to be at our rendezvous point by one. You've overslept!"

He groaned again, the previous night slowly coming back to him. Lots of booze and mindless sex and now… Shit. Maybe he was getting too old for this. He knew this was a hangover that'd be sticking around far longer than he'd been used to in younger years.

"Oh?" he muttered on a deep yawn. "They actually made it this time?"

"Oui," Jeanne-Marie replied. "This time, yes. Benoit confirmed it – I just got a message in from him. So," she raised her eyes to his and smiled at him coquettishly, "it won't be a wasted journey this time."

"Shame," he drawled back in languid French. "I was thinkin' we could pick up where we left off last night."

"Oh shush!" she laughed, pushing herself away from him. "You're in no fit state for more fun! You need some water. I'll get you some!"

He pushed himself up against the headboard into a sitting position, watching as Jeanne-Marie busied herself at the washstand, a small smile curling his lips. She was young and lithe and exuberant, raven-haired and blue-eyed, with pretty, fresh-faced, elfin looks, and a charming idealism he'd never really had. It was an idealism that had led her into the Resistance, and somehow she still hadn't lost it. He liked that about her, almost as much as he liked the fact that sex with her was meaningless and throwaway, yet good.

"About time they showed up," he commented wryly, as he watched her fill a glass for him, while simultaneously hooking her brassiere. "Was beginning to think there wasn't much reason for me come here after all. Pleasant though the company may be."

She shot him a look, half-amused, half-vexed.

"If you came over the Channel just to have sex with me, I'd be worried."

She didn't have an inflated sense of ego either, which he also liked. Her emotions were not a thing to be examined – to her, life was to be lived, and he was happy to help her live it. Usually, when women first saw his demon eyes, a moment of shock would pass over their faces, no matter the depth of their desire. But Jeanne had barely batted an eyelid. Of course, he'd found out later that she was a mutant herself, although he still hadn't found out exactly what her mutation was.

"Here," she said, coming on over and handing him the glass. He took it, chugging down the water in a few seconds flat, regaining some sense of humanity as he did so. Jeanne was already moving about the room, picking clothes up off the floor and dressing herself with busy efficiency.

"You should get ready," she told him tersely. "Benoit will be waiting."

He sat the glass aside with a lop-sided grin, watching her a moment. He kind of admired the way she could switch completely back to business on the turn of a proverbial dime. He simply pillowed his arms behind his head and let himself enjoy the show she was putting on for him.

"What are you looking at?" she shot accusatorily when she saw him staring at her in the mirror. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

"Just enjoying the view, chere," he grinned, and she tutted at him with exasperation, only to quickly relent and come right on over anyway, sitting on the bed next to him and slapping his chest affectionately.

"You are an awful, awful man!" she threw at him with a mock severity that quickly tipped over into a sunny laugh. It was so contagious that he found himself laughing too, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a kiss that left her giggling with exhilaration when it was over.

"What is a woman to do with you, Remy?" she laughed.

"I dunno," he replied. "I can think of some things. But I prefer it when you surprise me."

She looked tempted – but to her credit she cast a fleeting look at the dusty clock on wall, and once more backed away from him.

"Non," she said sweetly, though firmly. "This will not do! You are determined to disrupt our mission! And while I admire your gifts of sabotage, in this case I will have to declare my disapproval!"

Nevertheless, she smacked a final, quick kiss to his lips, just as he said:

"And here I was, thinking you liked living on the edge."

"Business before pleasure, mon cher," she reminded him. She had almost fully pulled away from him, when she paused, stared at his chest and said, "Why do you always wear that horrible thing?"

"What thing?" he asked, and she put a hand on his breast, replied: "This thing."

She was touching the ring that was resting over his heart, the one that hung on the chain he nearly always wore. The smile slipped from his lips, and he answered nonchalantly: "This? An heirloom, chere."

She pulled a face that, at any other time, would've amused him.

"I wouldn't have taken you for the sentimental sort, Remy. Especially not for something so ugly."

He touched the ring at his chest – perhaps a little defensively, perhaps a little morosely. Even he wasn't entirely sure.

"I'm just used to having it here," he rejoined in a deadpan, all sense of playfulness now gone. He sat up; and if she wondered about the sudden change in his demeanour, she said nothing.

"Come on, chere," he said, getting out of bed and finally pulling on his underwear. "Benoit will be waiting."

-oOo-

Barely 55 minutes later they were both in the back of a car parked on the Rue de la Rochefoucauld, keeping watch on the green double doors of the townhouse across the street. To all intents and purposes, the world would see them as nothing more than a young, middle-class couple with their driver, intent on seeking out the latest spectacle. These days, Nazi-spotting was something of a fad with certain fashionable sets – or at least, it was to those who had pretensions to being fashionable.

So far, however, there had been no movement at all from within or without the building.

"This is ridiculous, ridiculous," Jeanne was hissing to herself in the seat beside Remy. "Benoit, are you sure this is the correct place?"

Benoit, sitting calmly in the driver's seat with a newspaper laid out neatly on the wheel before him, appeared to be unconcerned by her impatience, as he was unconcerned about most things.

"Be still, petite. Robert is usually reliable in these matters."

She scoffed, squirming irritably in her seat.

"Those German pigs are never this late. They are always on time, always."

"Perhaps there was some unforeseen traffic," Benoit replied, slowly turning a page. "What's a few minutes?"

"And why should we be sitting here anyway?" Jeanne continued, ignoring him. "Madame Collins will be seeing them soon anyway. She will know all we need to know within the next 48 hours."

"You know why," Benoit answered with a ponderous sigh. "To confirm the members of the party responsible for Operation X. The sooner we know, the sooner we can put our plans into action."

Jeanne tutted, mumbling under her breath. Remy, for his part, was silent, his mind on other things. The past few months he'd been supposed to be trying to steal something for MI-6 that didn't yet exist. A secret weapon, the development of which appeared to have been put on hold – for unknown reasons – almost as soon as he'd landed in France. The Germans had gone completely silent for several weeks. There had been rumours of some sort of disaster, of a secret munitions compound in the forests having gone up in flames. By the time the Resistance had got to the buildings, there'd been nothing left to find – but the Germans had already begun to build a new, heavily-fortified compound, slightly to the east, and deeper in the woods. The news that the Reich was sending this new party from Berlin – headed by one of the Nazi party's most senior SS officers, no less – was a good sign. Remy was itching for some action, for a heist. Anything, but the monotonous dread of living in this occupied city, among a population on edge.

His eyes scaled the luxurious building, the place they had been told the new party would be taking up residence. Until very recently it had been occupied by the crème-de-la-crème of Paris' elite – but they had all fled south to the free zone shortly after the Nazi occupation. The occupiers were free to do with their new property as they wished.

Remy lightly touched the thin bracelet on his wrist, the one he wore only when he was out in public. It was giving him a helluva headache, on top of the hangover he already had, and he wished he'd been more sensible the night before. There'd been a bullish, triumphant atmosphere yesterday evening during their branch meeting. After weeks of sitting on their hands, there had finally been the promise of progress. Ridiculously, they'd all celebrated as if it had been the fourth of July – but then, he supposed people didn't have much to celebrate these days.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of motorcycles approaching, and Benoit lifted the newspaper casually, feigning interest in the articles.

"Here they are!" Jeanne hissed excitedly, just as two Nazi soldiers rode into view, followed soon after by a convoy of elegant black Volkswagens.

Remy leaned forward in his seat and watched on as the convoy came to a halt right outside the front door. The two soldiers dismounted from their motorcycles, followed by an entire car-full emerging onto the sidewalk, long guns drawn and pistols at their side.

"Sacre bleu," Jeanne was murmuring as she readied her camera. "What a thing it would be, to throw a grenade in among the whole lot of them right now and have done with it!"

Benoit merely harrumphed his agreement.

There were people milling about, eager to watch what their oppressors were up to, albeit from a suitably safe distance. Luckily, from their particular spot across the street, Remy and his partners in crime had a pretty clear view of the little tableau, at least for the most part.

Presently one of the soldiers approached the biggest car in the convoy, one festooned with swastika flags, and opened up the rear passenger door. From out of the depths emerged a small, spare elderly man with a pinched yet distinguished face, dressed in a perfectly-pressed and turned-out black SS uniform.

Jeanne was already clicking away with her camera.

"Who is that?" she quizzed Benoit. "Do you recognise him?"

"No," Benoit replied after a moment, having briefly surveyed their prey whilst turning a page. "I don't. But I am sure Luc or Emile or Theoren will know."

"He seems so small," she observed. "So weak. So… normal."

"Nazis are humans too," Remy voiced the controversial thought, knowing his companion was perhaps too young to understand. Benoit gave a humorous grunt of approval, and made no further comment.

The SS officer was on the pavement, surrounded by his guard, conversing sedately with the apparent custodian of the house. While he was doing so, Remy was surprised to note the soldier helping another someone out of the car. First one feminine leg, stockinged and high-heeled, emerged from the vehicle; then another. The rest of the body, dressed in a plain, though perfectly tailored tweed suit, unfolded itself from the car with a poise and elegance he'd rarely seen, despite all his years of womanising. The woman stepped out onto the pavement, a pace or two behind the elderly officer, and took in her surroundings quietly.

"Who's that, Benoit?" Jeanne asked, snapping a photo and winding the roll on for another. "Do you suppose that's his wife?"

Remy didn't think so. The woman's face was obscured by a veil attached to a tall hat, but he could tell she was a great deal younger than her companion.

Benoit merely sniffed uncharitably at Jeanne's question.

"His mistress, I should say," he voiced exactly what Remy was thinking.

The attending soldier was speaking to her now, with a body language that seemed confidential, and to which she was nodding absently. There were gloves on her hands, which she was constantly touching in a manner that seemed oddly self-conscious to him. There was something about her – the obvious lushness of her body beneath the suit, the grace with which she bore herself – that involuntarily made his pulse quicken and his blood boil. It was a long time since he'd seen a woman like her – a woman who could turn a man on without a word, without a smile, without even so much as a look.

"Pft," Jeanne made a disgusted sound. "Yes, his mistress, I'm sure of it."

The woman turned her head to look back at her elderly companion, who was still talking with an animated custodian. For a second he saw the curve of her chin, the line of her throat – and something hit him, right in his gut, in his heart. He took in a sudden breath and… she was looking back at the soldier again, and the impression was gone.

No, he thought. It couldn't be. It was impossible.

"Remy," Jeanne was whispering, as the group was finally being led into the house by the fussing custodian. "I hope you will report this to Madame Collins tonight. If he has brought a mistress, this could be an interesting new angle to play…"

"Of course," he murmured absently in reply. "Of course."

-oOo-