I, Mutant

I, Mutant Chapter Fourteen
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… *happy weekend dance * InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink, Dracena and Greywolf are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. J ProPhile: Hmm *more random gold stars * Morgan: *obvious stalk * Readers/Reviewers: Depending on my schedule there may or may not be an update tomorrow for Foxy to beta and if there’s none…it’ll be out Sundayish. Mostly. I think.




He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his stomach rumbling in protest as the teasing smell of fried dough and thick coffee tickled his senses. He was hungry. Starving, if he were going to be honest about it. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly full of saliva, and opened his eyes. The crowd was just as thick as before, summer tourists and tired natives surging towards ecstasy in one form or another. But he didn’t care. All he wanted was a nice, dry spot for the night; it looked like it was going to rain soon and this part of town had little hope for finding a cozy nook or kind parlor. Falling into step with the crowd, he stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets, breathing out a soft tune, humming as he walked closer to the large man with the open messenger bag. There, he smiled to himself, was dinner money. The man never noticed as he was relieved of the contents of his wallet and a rather nice camera.

“Shhhhh…” He pressed his long finger over his lips and winked at the woman. She had to be at least fifty, he thought. She was tall and very pretty, her hair a golden-white color. She raised a brow at him and pressed her lips into a thin line, obviously not amused. He knew it was time to get moving, posthaste. Making a small show of examining one of the souvenirs on the rack near the door, he shrugged, replaced it on it’s hook, and whistled cheerily as he stepped out into Jackson Square. His sunglasses made the world look shadowed but he did not care. He knew the colors well enough, knew the streets like the back of his hand, which he was currently scratching idly. He had found it was best to do something visible with his hands when he was under suspicion—it made the shop owners think that he was innocent, seeing his hands at work doing something other than hiding in his pockets. He tripped down the street without a backwards glance, knowing the older lady was watching him from the doorway of her shop. He didn’t care. He was innocent this time. He turned down Pirate’s Alley, running along the cathedral’s wall, and let out a breath he had not been aware that he was holding, feeling a bit more safe in the confines of the narrow, cool street, a kinship with long dead pirates making him feel less paranoid, less stiff. There were just a few small shops on this row, mostly catering to those with more money than not and with a bent for the supernatural in one flavor or another. He had enough money for a nice, warm meal that night and had his eye on a courtyard without security watching it, but Fate and Fortune were smiling on him just then. A tall, distinguished man in a suit that obviously cost more than Remy had ever even contemplated having in the metaphorical bank, was stepping into the alley from one of the tiny, pricey shops, a cane tucked under his arm in a picture of antebellum elegance. “Bonjour,” Remy murmured, picking up the pace a bit. “Comment ca va?” He passed the man, pretending to be interested in a display in one of the windows, something involving silver coffins and tiny jeweled skulls, but he was really waiting, biding his time. The man drew even with him and Remy turned, his fingers deft and eyes wide and innocent.
“Not so fast, little man,” the mark crooned softly, grabbing Remy’s wrist and twisting it back, forcing the boy to turn around lest the bones be broken. “You ain’t so swift as to get one past Jean Luc LeBeau!”
Remy struggled, throwing his weight back, into the man’s legs and making him release his grip. He did not make it far, however, as Jean Luc grabbed his shirt and pulled him off the ground, sending his sunglasses tumbling. Remy’s eyes blazed black and red as he hung defiantly from the man’s grasp, his jaw set in steely lines of determination. “Lemme down or I’m gonna tell folks you kidnappin’ me, ol’ man!”
Jean Luc burst into a gale of pleased laughter. “I done caught me a lil’ Cajun boy! Bon!”

Remy shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, working his jaw silently. He hated this. It was stupid, he decided. Beyond stupid. But he would not tell his father that. It seemed like someone else’s dream when he thought of how he came to have Jean Luc for a father and he did not dwell on it overmuch but sometimes, particularly during these Guild meetings, he wondered if Jean Luc somehow engineered their meeting, made it so they would join like this because he lacked an heir of his blood. Remy’s eyes drifted listlessly over the assembled groups, the Thieves and Assassins. He was restless, ready to leave. He missed the streets during these dumb parties-cum-meetings. He missed being able to do as he pleased, move freely among people and stay up or go to sleep when he felt like it. He never had to be nice to anyone until he came here, he thought grumpily, his fourteen year old pride wounded by the suit his father made him wear. He saw his chance when the butler brought a tray of juleps around. Silently, Remy padded from the parlor and into the hall, making his way on cat feet to the kitchen then into the back courtyard, breathing in a sigh of relief at the first sight of the old fountain, covered in moss, and the browning magnolia tree. Quiet as he could, he pulled one of the wrought iron chairs away from the outdoor table and sat down, laying out a hand of solitaire with the cards from his pocket. He was not alone, though, he noticed quickly. A pale figure moved through the darkness, too solid to be the ghost of Ol’ Nan, too tall to be the shade of Marie Claire, the drowned girl from the river. Remy did not have time to call out before the girl was before him, silent as the dead and more beautiful than anyone or anything he had ever seen in his short life. “Who…”
“I am Belladonna Boudreaux,” she cut him off sharply. “And I ain’t gonna marry you. You’re poor and ugly and stupid.” She pushed past him roughly, nearly oversetting him. “And,” she called over her shoulder as she stormed into the kitchen, “you ain’t nothin’ but a common gutter snipe!”
He remembered to breathe when the door slammed. “Tien!” he shouted, scooping up the cards. “You come back here!” He rattled the door, finding it locked and his lockpick, on orders of Jean Luc, on his dresser. “Merde!” He flung the deck of cards at the door, sending them scattering into the bushes and onto the stoop. “Merde, merde, merde!” He glared at the backdoor, his anger burning hot. The scent of burning paper drew his attention downward, away from the door, a moment later. The cards were smoldering, burning as his anger grew. “Merde,” he said again, in a decidedly different tone. Jean Luc had warned him that he was capable of things most people could only dream of, but he had thought he meant stealth and cunning. This, Remy thought proudly, would surely get him out of these damned guild meetings.