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The Ante
Chapter XXII: Immortals
(Part 1/2)
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They called it the Devil’s playground. An apt title, Remy thought, tapping the end of his cigarette lightly and igniting the tobacco. He pulled on it, enjoying the swimming sensation in his head as he filled his lungs.

Straight into the blood.

Just like his city.

“Bonsoir, ma belle damme,” he greeted her, the smoke dangling idly off his lower lip as he took in her sprawled form. The streets below, a tangle of dark alleyways, pulsating nightclubs, perfumed bodies and flashing neons sang their siren’s song to him – a medley of laughter, clinking glasses and the blare of Dixieland. “Je vous en prie, pardonnez moi. Je ne vous oblié pas en lieu d’une autre.”

It was good to be home, he thought, puffing idly on his cigarette and contemplating the best route across town. Henri had deposited him not long ago on Decatur, letting him take to the rooftops, blending seamlessly with the shadows like a ghost renewing his love for old haunts.

“Mais, quelle d’autre,” he hummed, contented with clinging to the ledge of a particularly posh apartment building. A Spanish-style wrought iron balcony was a mere few yards below him; an assortment of potted plant life dripped over the edges. He liked the ledge. He liked the view. He liked knowing that when he got back to the Guild house, a warm temptation waited for him.

He smirked, exhaling and standing from his crouch. His trench flapped around his legs with the light wind. It was a comfortable, balmy breeze that cleared his head and dried the sweat on his back. With it came the fragrance of fresh beignets, stale beer from the bars below and hothouse flowers from the window boxes of the upper crust. Comforting smells and sounds of familiarity, masked over by the rippling echo in his memory of soft sighs, and the heated, clean scent of freshly bathed skin – drenched with the perfume of lust. He could still taste Rogue on his tongue, and it made his pulse quicken.

It should have made him nervous.

It would have too, if he weren’t so consumed by the thought of her spilled across that bed.

He chuckled.

Le Diable would walk the streets of sin city that night, relearning her secret places and worshipping the shadows that had birthed him. One last time, he thought – believing sincerely in his heart of hearts that he was truly ready to leave his lifelong love. The city beckoned him with the blare of car horns and the caws of tourists; inviting him to know her intimately just once more. How could he deny her that, Remy thought, wetting his lower lip and tasting her with the eagerness of someone whose virtue had been rekindled by the coy flavour of a New Orleans nocturne. This was their game, after all.

He bowed his head, a small smile playing about his mouth. He prayed she’d forgive him for giving his heart so easily to another.

“Je suis désolé,” he apologized to the city. “Mais,” he shrugged, “tu sais – it would have never worked between us, ma belle.”

Charging the cigarette butt in the same time it took to snap it out over the broken concrete of Bourbon Street, he watched as it detonated in a beautiful blossom of pink and orange.

Below, several individuals heard the small explosion, turning their faces to the night sky as a delicate stream of sparks floated towards them, only to be snuffed out by the wind that became steadily stronger with each moment that passed. A chorus of exclamations followed, some drunken, others merely cautious. None saw the former thief as he leapt off the ledge of a window to the second story balcony of an American townhouse, disappearing one moment, and reappearing in the midst of the throng on the street another.

---

Rogue padded around the first floor of the mansion; tugging on the hem of the tank top Mercy had given her with fingers covered by white cotton gloves – the sort used by jewellers when handling precious gemstones.

The irony was not lost on her, but damned if the things weren’t too tight. They stopped at her wrists, leaving the entirety of her arms exposed, rendering any real protection from skin to skin contact completely moot.

People touched shoulders more often than they touched hands.

It was an unwritten rule of social greeting in informal exchanges: shoulders, backs, upper arms were fair game. In short, she was screwed. Rogue knew it, and it made her more anxious than she already was.

She yanked on the too-small tank again, giving up a losing battle and peering at the inch of exposed tummy over the grey sweatpants, which, incidentally, were about six sixes too big and had the word “Tulane” printed across the butt. Were it not for the drawstring cinched tightly around her hips and double-knotted, she’d be walking around with her ass hanging out.

Remy was going to have a hay day when he saw her….

She swallowed hard, focusing on her bare feet as she tracked across the warm wood floors. The sweatpants flopped listlessly, catching under her toes whenever she hit a particularly plush Persian rug.

…Assuming he could restrain himself from mauling her first.

The thought sent a ripple of staunched pleasure through her gut that Rogue forced herself to pass off as nerves. She and Remy had come close to doing something so infinitely momentous that it should have been good. They had reached an understanding that should have alleviated her concerns and placated the roar of her pulse in her ears.

It hadn’t.

Tight clothing stifles sensation, but the sweats were loose and warm, brushing her thighs lightly and creating a pleasant friction that Rogue tried vainly to ignore. Whatever had nearly happened back in her room could have cost both her and Remy dearly. Thinking about it didn’t make it any easier, since by thinking about it, she consequently thought of the look in his eyes, the curve to his mouth, and the warm weight she could still feel in her limbs. It made her sluggish. It made her insides hum with the needy, nervous ache to be touched again. That, of all things, made her very, very nervous.

Remy had made his point. What the body wants and what the body needs and what the body shouldn’t do because it led to those nasty urges was a stark reminder of why she put the effort into keeping people at a distance.

Knowing what it felt like hurt more when it was gone.

Remy, as it were, was gone, but the memory of his hands one her body was fresh. Even without him, she found herself responding to the thought of it without any prompting. Rogue shuddered, swallowing the sensation and trying to focus on finding the kitchen and Emil.

She scowled, turning down the first hallway she came to blindly and hoping that the Cezanne she’d just passed wasn’t the same Cezanne she’d walked by a few minutes ago. The Impressionists all looked alike to her. Everything in the mansion that wasn’t a large blur of blended brush strokes as she stalked through the halls looked the same. She couldn’t bring herself to focus on any of it.

What the hell had she been thinking, letting him go alone?

“Arrgh!” she yelled, coming to a dead halt and flailing a little, her frustration with herself doubling the aggravation she felt with him.

If the swamp rat got himself hurt, it’d be on her head. The thought sobered her, but only a little, and it dig nothing to stop the chill that had settled into her skin once he’d left her. Rogue folded her arms across her chest stubbornly. Anyone would be concerned, she told herself. Her interest in his well-being had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to warm herself by being close to him again, she asserted silently, not believing a word of it just the same.

What would she do when he came back? More importantly, what would Remy coax out of her next?

Rogue shivered, absently running a hand to her neck, her fingers tracing her collarbone lightly as if her own touch could renew the sensation he’d inspired. It was a pale comparison. He’d left his mark on her, and there wasn’t a thing she could do to wipe it off.

Biting down on her lower lip to prevent a soft smile, Rogue, though confused and a little scared at the prospect, knew she didn’t want to erase that kiss.

She hoped he was all right. She hoped he’d return soon. Worry chased her frustration, her frustration chased her desire, and her desire slammed into the perpetual wall of confusion that was growing increasingly stronger each minute that passed and Remy didn’t return.

Partly hoping that each next corner she turned, he’d be there, Rogue was faced with the prospect of re-evaluating what had nearly happened between them – creating a particularly vicious cycle that mimicked her misguided trail through the mansion’s first floor.

Stupid swamp rat, she thought, shaking her head. What could have been so important?

Her hands on her hips, and her head down, Rogue considered the options. The only things she knew of to be in the Quarter were the stone, possibly, and the Assassins, probably. She rubbed at her forehead. They weren’t really sure about either – unless there was something Remy wasn’t telling her.

Rogue bit down on her lower lip, chewing the fleshy swell absently. Part of her still didn’t believe that he was over Belladonna. Maybe he never would be. But what he’d said made sense. Either Gambit was a spectacular liar, or all his talk of living in the moment and seizing the things you wanted when the opportunity presented itself was too tempting to ignore. For all Rogue’s self-denial, she’d never opened herself long enough to really consider what she wanted. She did what was necessary. She kept herself and everyone around her safe.

Remy would cause himself more harm if his powers failed and he tried touching her. That, somehow, managed to weigh in heavier than his ex-wife. Rogue snorted; leave it to Gambit to be attracted to girls who could kill him with next to no effort.

Rogue smiled to herself, a shy upturn of her mouth accompanied by a slight blush that she was grateful no one could see. That he would take the risk of trying to be close to her, closer than anyone ever had before; that he didn’t shrink away from her when she told him to back off; that he wouldn’t take no for an answer without a fight – that was something unexpected. It was more than pleasant. It was seductive beyond words.

She believed him, she realized. Everything he’d said, despite the memory she’d taken from him, rang true. In his roundabout manner, he’d proven that he’d cared for her. He wasn’t afraid of her. He wanted her.

“Damn,” she breathed, swallowing a nervous laugh that echoed along the deserted corridor.

It scared her witless that he was wearing her down, but at the same time, she was growing to appreciate his efforts.

So distracted by contemplating it all, Rogue nearly leapt when Theoren stepped out from a small, darkened alcove off to her left.

“Evenin’,” he murmured, his dark eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. “Fancy a stroll at dis time o’ de night?”

Theoren was a big man, over six feet with a thick neck, and brown eyes so dark and sceptical that they were nearly black in the muted light of the corridors. From the instant she’d seen him yesterday morning, and judging by what he’d said to Remy, it was obvious there was bad blood between them.

She had decided on instinct that she didn’t like him, and the way he was appraising her did nothing to change her mind. Her good mood evaporated, blown away by the light breeze that spilled into the mansion proper from the open windows of the rooms lining the hall.

Not appreciating the way Theoren stared down at her, and even less enthusiastic that he’d caught her in the midst of her preoccupied rambling, Rogue squared her shoulders.

“Ah was lookin’ for the kitchen,” she ground out.

“Ha,” he chuckled, his mouth twisting in an unpleasant smile. “Suppose y’ t’ink because ol’ Remy dragged y’ home y’ got de run o’ de place, huh?”

“Not hardly,” she bit back, deciding she didn’t like the way he said Remy’s name. He spat it out like a curse. “Ah haven’t been dragged a damn place yet, and even if Ah was, it sure wouldn’t be by yo’ cousin. Not here, not anywhere.”

“Well, let m’ tell y’ somet’in’, p’tit – y’ de first Remy’s brought home. He usually just went t’ dere places, whatever street trash he managed t’ pick up.”

She peered at him, dubious and more than a little miffed, from his boots to the top of his head. Snidely, she returned, “Ah wonder why that is. With yo’ company, it ain’t no surprise,” she spat, ignoring the brief twinge in her chest as his words settled.

“Mind y’ mouth, girl. Y’ don’t know what y’ getting’ into.” He towered over her, threatening to invade her space.

Rogue stepped up to him, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “And ya don’t know who’s neck yo’ breathin’ down,” she responded, her tone taking on a sharp edge. Her gaze flicked to his hands, slack at his sides and bare save for one gold band on his ring finger. For one brief, shining moment, she considered the threat she presented – all too aware of her naked arms and Theoren’s empty hands in such close proximity to each other. A flicker of something sinister loomed in her mind; a fleeting thought that if he touched her and she absorbed him, Rogue wouldn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse.

He sneered. “I’ve got a pretty good idea – an’ it ain’t much.” Theoren’s hand twitched, and on instinct, Rogue took a step backwards, taking the threat of her bare skin with her. The thought faded, leaving a gaping hollow in its wake, lined with the sour edge of repulsion. She didn’t want to know what Theoren knew. She didn’t want to know why he hated Remy so much – those thoughts would taint her own when she looked at Remy. Now that they were at even odds, she wanted to keep it that way.

The sharp movement was misunderstood for fear of him, and Theoren chuckled. It was a low, empty sound that held some dark amusement Rogue couldn’t even begin to fathom. She bristled as he laughed at her outright.

The desire to absorb him out was staunched, but that didn’t mean she’d hesitate to knock his block off if he pressed her.

“Y’ obviously don’t know Remy so well if y’ standin’ up for him. Brash, p’tit. Very brash. Mebbe y’ more useful den de rest of de salopes Remy’s used to an’ dat’s why he’s keepin’ y’ around.”

The rush of anger was so strong she could roll it over her tongue. It held a bitter aftertaste that left her palette dry. All Rogue found she could do was glare.

Theoren appraised her once more and backed up, knocking on the door behind him without turning his back on her. The knob turned under his hand easily, but it figured he wouldn’t leave without a parting jab.

“I dunno what Remy promised y’, but I wouldn’t hold it too dear, p’tit. Whatever Remy does, he does it f’ himself an’ not f’ de sake of it. Y’ best remember dat – dere ain’t no one worth so much t’ him t’ risk his own sorry neck.”

The room behind him was a large study. The books lining the walls were a brown blur. As Rogue’s eyes narrowed, she nearly missed the figure seated at the desk, looking to them both thoughtfully.

“Theoren,” Jean Luc chastised. “Dat is no way t’ talk t’ a guest.” He stood, rising from his seat in one fluid sweep. His inflection had a smooth edge to it – like warm butter, the consonants softened imperceptibly. She was willing to bet Jean Luc could speak a strong Parisian French and fool a native speaker.

Theoren didn’t look at all cowed; instead, he smirked outright at her incensed expression.

“Come, ma petite – is de boy givin’ y’ trouble?” Jean Luc asked.

“Which one?” Rogue said under her breath, her thoughts roiling. She managed to offer Jean Luc with a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she glanced back to Theoren. “Not at all,” she said aloud. “Ah was just tryin’ ta find the kitchen, and it seems that Theoren doesn’t know his way around his own home enough ta help.”

Theoren raised an eyebrow, but refrained from commenting.

Moving around the desk, Jean Luc made no noise whatsoever on the hardwood. It was unnerving, to say the very least. His steps were so sure that it appeared as if he was gliding instead of walking.

Jean Luc motioned for his nephew to take a seat, though he continued to look at Rogue in a way that made her even less comfortable than the prospect of listening to any more of Theoren’s belligerent commentary. Both men’s faces were schooled into practiced expressions, but Jean Luc had a certain tightness about his mouth that appeared worn in with his frown lines. It made her uneasy.

“I will escort mademoiselle Rogue to de kitchens. I’ve not yet had de pleasure of making her acquaintance… formally.”

Jean Luc’s voice had an oil slick smoothness to it that made her hackles rise; like there was more to what he was saying than what was actually said. He could have told her he was going to gut her like a fish, but with that sly smile, she would have understood something totally different. If Rogue didn’t know better, she’d agree to it without much complaint. Whatever the hell he was offering with that grin couldn’t be good, and knowing how Remy felt about his adoptive father was enough to prompt her into being wary around him.

He offered her an arm, covered to the wrist with a pinstriped sleeve and pinned by a platinum cufflink. Rogue peered at the bend of his elbow suspiciously, though Jean Luc merely bestowed upon her the same benign smile that expressed nothing and revealed even less about what he was contemplating.

“Sure,” she replied, placing her gloved fingers on his arm to be polite, but at the same time, acknowledging a whisper of something at the back of her mind – a note of caution, a dull and wordless echo that she felt rather than heard. Careful. Keep your guard up, Rogue. It was exactly what Remy would warn her against.

---

“Are you certain, Wolverine?”

“When is my nose ever wrong, ‘Ro? Push the wind the other way.”

Storm peered at him archly, turning midair so that she hovered overhead on a wind current that traced over the roof, ruffling Logan’s hair. “Please,” he hastened to add, seeing the selfsame expression on her face that could easily bring down a lightning bolt on his head.

It wasn’t easy to forget that Storm had once been worshipped as a weather goddess, but sometimes, the knowledge got misplaced along with wayward birthday dates and anniversaries.

Not that Logan took the weather witch’s powers for granted, no. He was just… distracted.

“I smell swamp skunk,” he growled, turning his attention back to the arched roofs and stunted squalor of the Quarter beneath them. The statement placated his companion, and though she was tired, Storm turned her attention to the twined streets, suffused with the tawny gleam from dimmed storefronts that had long closed for the night. “Four blocks South and moving West,” he added, sniffing heartily.

“Is Rogue with him?” Storm asked, rising ever higher into the night sky. With Bourbon less than a block away, she was risking her visibility. It was less of a concern over the Dauphine Hotel. Tourists flocked southbound to the lights and sounds of the riverfront and the Calle. The streets below were peppered with the odd passer-by, but for the most part, they ushered themselves along with their backs to the two mutants sheltered by the eaves of the old palatial residence.

If it were possible, Logan leaned even further out over the lip of the shingling, sniffing fiercely into the light wind that Storm commanded.

“All over him, yeah.” He made a low sound in the back of his throat, nearly inhuman in both pitch and meaning – like a dog readying to tear a piece out of your hand when you offered to pet it.

Storm swept past him, her arms spread wide, embracing the cool breeze that held her aloft. “Calm yourself, Wolverine. If Gambit is rendered unable to tell us what has happened to Rogue, we will be no more further in our efforts to find her than when we first began.”

“Something’s up, ‘Ro,” he rumbled. “We don’t have the time to treat the kid delicately.”

“I understand how dire the consequences may appear, Wolverine,” she said firmly. “But resorting to violence will not bring us any closer to attaining the information we require.”

“It’ll sure as hell make me feel better, though.” With that, Wolverine grimaced, unsheathing his claws. “You can interrogate the punk the way you like – if you get to him first.” He bared his teeth, offering little more than a flash of white canines, and pelted along the roof.

Storm sighed and followed at an easy pace, prepared to sweep to the far end of the French Quarter before Wolverine could reach their quarry and exercise any significant amount of damage. Calmly, she passed him as Logan took to the fire escape, skidding down the rungs three at a time, the adamantium blades slowing his momentum just enough that he maintained control over his descent.

“You have explained to me in detail what you believe transpired last night,” Storm said, her hair billowing upwards as she matched Logan’s rattling plunge down the rusted iron. He slashed at the lever that would send the security stairs to the alley below, and when they failed to unhinge, he growled.

“They’re in over their heads,” he snarled, leaping the remaining ten feet to the concrete and rolling with the impact. Storm descended before him, blocking his path out of the passageway. “There were two scents that I knew of on those bodies – one was Rogue, and one was the Cajun,” he continued, picking himself off the ground. “They fought, that much was clear. But the setup –” He shook his head, peering up at Storm where she hovered.

With his stature, Storm’s elevation forced Logan to crane his neck upwards to compensate for the two feet of missing height.

“Those kids aren’t capable of what I saw, ‘Ro. You know just as well as I do who we’re here for. Mystique is setting the odds against them. It’s a frame. It’s damned smart, too – as much as I hate to say it. I couldn’t pick up her scent anywhere ‘cause she ain’t got one. I knew as much when we were up in Tibet trying to track her, Mesmero and Rogue last year.”

“Should you not have informed Nightcrawler of this revelation?” Storm asked, her lithe frame crackling with static electricity. Logan knew the signs – she was tense. Any more prompting on his part, and he’d be dealing with ball lightening, or worse, a hurricane – given the muggy climate. He knew Storm to be capable of such a thing, if there was the right stimulus.

Wolverine was hoping for exactly that, assuming it was directed at a particular sneaking renegade thief who’d gotten Stripes mixed up in this whole mess, and not him. Regenerative healing took time, and at the rate things were going, that was a commodity he simply didn’t have to squander.

Logan shook his head. “What should I have told him, darlin’? His mom’s stepped up the tactical training to include murder?”

“Rogue would not join Mystique willingly,” she replied firmly. “Their shared past is too much of a burden to move beyond, regardless of the promises Raven could make should she have the Gem.”

“But what would Gumbo do if the price was right? What if he’s working Stripes into a corner just to hand her over to that bitch of a stepmother Rogue’s got?” he shot back. “What’s his payoff in all this, huh, Storm? More importantly, who’s doing the paying?”

That did it, he thought.

“We shall soon see,” Storm said, her eyes fading from a misted blue-white, to the bleak, thick colour of an impenetrable blizzard as she rose to the sky.

On the ground, Logan sniffed again, catching the unmistakable whiff of a rat in a concrete maze. The kid could be working for Mystique, and if the kid convinced Rogue otherwise, he was better than Logan thought. If the kid wasn’t working for Mystique, and he’d dragged Rogue out here after Wolverine had expressly told him he’d gut him if he did something stupid again, well, then – Gambit was fair game. To Logan, that spelled out a win-win situation.

He tasted the air on the back of his tongue, grimacing at the clutter of scents that blotted out the Cajun. Below the upper notes, street grime and salty sweat, he memorized the acrid scent of deceit. It was a pungent reminder that he was steadily beginning to hate New Orleans.

It was that acidic trail that drove him through the streets as Wolverine ran; not the scent of cheap aftershave or fresh cigarettes, or even the unmistakable press of Rogue’s touch on the Cajun’s clothes – that just made him pissed. Wolverine was rarely on an even keel when it came to the students he’d come to think of as his kids, but Rogue?

You didn’t fuck with Stripes unless you wanted to fuck with Wolverine, and Logan was through with Gumbo’s foreplay.

---

They walked side-by-side, arm in arm, in a strained silence that knit Rogue’s eyebrows together with anxiety. Jean Luc strolled at leisurely pace, like he had all the time in the world to share the high ceilings and obscene opulence of his home with her.

For what felt like ages, they passed through halls that smelled of warm, varnished wood, laced with the faint bite of linseed oil and lemon Pledge. Like the dust concealed by the blue-tinged moonlight that filtered in from the long windows lining the rooms they passed, gas lamps chased the shadows that weren’t quick enough to escape the light.

The entire main level of the mansion was bathed in the gilded gleam of that wavering glow. Beyond the doors that were left open, Rogue could see the arc of night drenching the horizon in darkness so absolute that more often than not, she was startled by her own reflection passing before the window panes.

Jean Luc tapped her gloved knuckles lightly, still supporting the light press of her fingers with his elbow as if she weren’t completely uncomfortable being paraded around the Guild house.

“Y’ must forgive my nephew,” he said after a stretch, rolling the words around his mouth like he was sampling a fine wine. “Theoren is not known f’ being delicate of disposition wit’ shared company.”

“Yeah, Ah gathered that much,” she replied blithely. At Jean Luc’s quizzical look, Rogue ducked her head a little, knowing she was being rude but unable to prevent it. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

He favoured her with a rich smile, not showing any teeth. “Emil was astute, I see. When he called m’ t’ tell m’ Remy passed de bridge a few nights ago, I thought he’d been exaggerating.” He patted her hand lightly. Rogue tried not to flinch away. “Remy was always drawn t’ femmes with fortitude. Dat’s a good t’ing, Rogue,” he continued. “He seems t’ forget de t’ings I taught him sometimes. Perhaps y’ can remind him when he won’t listen t’ me.”

Rogue blinked, stopping mid-stride. Jean Luc released her arm as it dropped to her side. Of all the things she’d expected from him, she hadn’t expected that. It sounded almost as if Jean Luc was conceding defeat, but for what, she wondered.

He paused, turning in a half circle and clasping his hands loosely behind his back. He appraised her shrewdly, all pretence wiped clean away.

“Remy is a smart boy, petite, even though his decisions don’t always seem t’ be de best. He means well.”

“Theoren seems ta think otherwise,” she replied guardedly, unsure how much information she could entrust to eldest LeBeau.

“Theoren,” Jean Luc said evenly, “has his own ghosts t’ deal with. As we all do, m’ certain.”

Though he kept his gaze level, Rogue had the impression that he was measuring her, trying to anticipate her reaction. As it were, Jean Luc possessed more patience than she did herself.

“If this is about what happened back at the cemetery –” she blurted.

Jean Luc raised a slender hand, begging her silence as he pressed his index finger to his lips in a graceful mockery of the request.

“A terrible tragedy,” he said lightly, inclining his head in respect. The movement was mechanical to the point of being practiced. “We wish de best t’ our most worthy adversaries and hope de grudges dey bare will be someday mended.”

Rogue gaped. He was brushing it off like it was nothing? Just how bad was this war everyone kept talking about if he could treat the deaths of two Assassins like a trip to the grocery store?

He smiled coolly at her expression. “I must ask somet’ing of y’, knowing dat m’ son trusts y’ more den he trusts his own pére.”

Would the surprises never cease?

“What?” she asked cautiously.

“Take care of m’ boy,” he said stiffly. “He’s forgotten de way, our way. When y’ leave here, take him with y’ – dis is no place f’ him anymore.”

“Ya want ta get rid of him,” she ascertained quietly, her chest tightening. How cruel was this man? Remy hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her Jean Luc had orchestrated his life. The thought sent a spike of anger through her gut.

Jean Luc breathed a heavy sigh, surveying her in the same calculated and anticipatory air that made her skin prickle unpleasantly. Below that, for the first time, Rogue saw for the first time the machinations of a father who once cared for his son, who had his hopes dashed when obligation had overtaken sense.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. She knew that look. It was one Mystique had once favoured her with.

“Dere is no offer, no promise, no bargain dat can be made when de answer is so clear t’ us now. He must leave dis city, and he must not come back,” he continued. “He can do no more t’ help.”

“Why does he feel so obligated ta help ya?” she managed, her pulse quickening. For a moment, the sound swelled in her ears. She had the strong urge to hit something. “Ya don’t want him, and yet he feels indebted ta this life ya raised him in.”

“Honour,” Jean Luc replied simply, a trace of pride in his level tone. He turned away, looking to the walls, his eyes misting. It was a flicker of something, his features softening imperceptibly. It wasn’t enough to convince her of his sincerity, but it was enough for her to know that there was something more to Jean Luc’s request. They’d failed each other somehow, both father and son. It hurt to look at that knowledge, so raw on the older man’s face. Rogue had the distinct impression that Remy and Jean Luc shared an inherited pride when it came to the things they thought they were bound to by tradition.

So much macho bullcrap, she thought. Both were probably too stubborn to realize that they did little more than hurt each other while trying to remedy their shared problems by themselves.

“Yo’ protectin’ him,” she said tightly. The realization stung. That was the difference between Remy’s family and hers; Mystique would never have done the same for her. Rogue was expendable. Remy was not.

Jean Luc shook his head. “Remy will always be a treasured member of de family, but no more can be done. See dat he understands dat, petite. Make sure he listens. He’s bartered for aid and protection, but y’ must leave soon. Dere won’t be more I can do f’ either of y’ if y’ linger too long.”

“But why?” she asked. “He came back here, risking himself so he could help ya, and Ah don’t even know why because he won’t tell me. Ah do know that it’s important ta him. Don’t ya see? Why can’t ya just talk ta each other?”

Jean Luc’s gaze turned hard. “Dere is a time and a place f’ everyt’ing. Dat is not somet’ing I expect y’ t’ understand – but t’ preserve our future, dis is de most important t’ing of all. If fate is kind t’ de family, den all will resolve itself in time.”

“Oh Ah understand that all right,” she snapped, her patience breaking. She stalked up to him, forgoing niceties altogether. “Ya can’t use people ta serve yo’ own ends, least of all your own kin. Sittin’ around and waiting for the opportune moment ta drag him back here when ya need him doesn’t fly with me. Ah don’t know what fate has ta do with this, but let me tell ya something – Ah know first hand what happens when ya put all yo’ eggs in that basket. It doesn’t work out. Ever. People get hurt, and Ah swear right now, Ah won’t let ya do that ta Remy again… not now, not when the ‘time is right’ or some other cockamamie nonsense that relies on something so abstract that ya don’t really know if it’s got truth ta it or not.”

“Y’ talk like y’ know more about us den Remy’s led us t’ believe, petite,” he responded. A small, sardonic smile pulled his mouth up at the corner.

“Ah know what Ah know because the same damned thing was done ta me by my mother. There ain’t no such thing as fate. Ya make your own,” she bit back.

“Dat hasn’t worked for de family so far.”

“Right, that was the failed attempt at Remy’s marriage, Ah suppose? Or maybe it was before that? What would Ah know – Ah only lived with a precognitive until Ah was sixteen. Ah wouldn’t know a damned thing about tryin’ ta fit into those patterns ta bring about a specific ends,” she retorted scathingly. “They only tried ta make me fit inta that mould my whole life. Ah’ll look after Remy, all right, but Ah swear, if ya try ta manipulate him though me – now? In ten years from now? In a hundred? Ah’ll drop ya myself.”

“Is dat a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

A tense silence stretched between them. Jean Luc continued to hold her gaze, his face a cleverly hardened mask. He was calculating, weighing his options with silent diplomacy. Something invisible dimmed, like a switch being thrown, and his expression softened.

“Being dat suspicious, y’d make an excellent t’ief,” he said after a moment, nodding with a look of fierce pride on his face. She’d met his expectations somehow, and although she was nearly brimming with hostility, Jean Luc didn’t appear at all perturbed.

“Viens,” he said again, giving her a knowing smile and gesturing for her to follow. Cautiously, Rogue stepped up to his side.

“We could make an arrangement,” he offered. “Since y’ seem t’ be so concerned for m’ son’s well being.”

“Ah’m not in a position ta bargain,” she returned crisply.

“Everyone has a price, Rogue. It’s just a matter of finding de right one.”

“What are ya suggestin’?” she asked, knowing that despite all the roundabout nonsense,

Jean Luc clearly had an ulterior motive. He wanted Remy gone, but he clearly wasn’t letting him go. That’d be too easy.

Jean Luc peered at her askance. “With abilities like yours, petite, you would be an asset t’ our family.”

Rogue stopped dead. “What ya sayin’? That Ah’d buy Remy a get out of jail free card?”

Jean Luc didn’t turn, though he paused a few yards before the opening to a large room bathed in fluorescent light. They’d nearly reached the kitchen.

“Our war is old, Rogue,” he replied, looking straight ahead. “New blood in our ranks is always an advantage. Remy knows dat much, an’ sometimes, he t’inks exactly like I do.”

Coldness spread through her stomach at his words. It was like a block of ice had been dropped into the pit of her belly and begun melting so slowly that it was nearly painful. Had Remy offered her so easily to the Thieves? To the man who supposedly orchestrated his life, treating him like little more than a means to an ends?

“M’ son likes y’ Rogue, and dat’s a rare t’ing. I’ve never seen him use m’ own tricks against me quite like he has in de last day.” Jean Luc sighed, turning to her finally, his face half-bathed in the bright glare from adjoining rooms, and half-steeped in the dim light of the halls. He looked almost wistful. “He bartered f’ your safety with his own. I want neither of y’ unless y’ willing.” He thought for a moment, and added softly, “Never have I seen him try t’ work me for a girl. She must be somet’ing special f’ him t’ do dat t’ his own pére.”

Rogue swallowed the chill, and slowly, a rush of heat rose to her face. She had been ready to condemn Remy so easily that she was embarrassed by it.

Jean Luc must have noticed, because he continued in an undertone. “If y’ interested, den y’ will have de right t’ tell me what y’ t’ink of de way I run dis clan, because y’ will be part of it. Until dat time, petite,” he shook his head, offering her a small smile, “understand dat time and tradition make y’ do t’ings dat affect many generations, many years ahead. What is done is done t’ satisfy de needs of de many. Dey outrank de needs of de few, no matter how close de few are t’ ya.”

Slowly, Rogue nodded. She didn’t trust her voice to come up with a response appropriate enough to end the conversation civilly, but she was relieved. The feeling spread through her limbs slowly, releasing the tension in her muscles and clearing her head.

She would get Remy out of this somehow, even if she had to drag his stubborn self back to New York.

Somehow, she didn’t entirely think it’d be necessary. Rogue smiled at that, a gesture that Jean Luc accepted, mistaking that it was for him instead of his son.

Remy seemed about ready to go with her all on his own.

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