Chapter 6: Guild Politics and Old Flames
Dawn crept across New Orleans like a cautious thief, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold. The Guild headquarters squatted on the riverfront like a monument to practical criminality—an old warehouse that had been storing stolen goods and family secrets for three generations.
He approached the building with the Heart of New Orleans tucked inside his jacket, the artifact still warm against his ribs from the previous night's Void energy discharge. Every few steps, his newly awakened precognition would spike briefly, picking up potential threats that dissolved into shadows and morning joggers.
The danger sense is permanent now. Great. Just what I needed—constant paranoia.
Henri met him at the loading dock entrance, green eyes bright with concern and curiosity.
"Successful night?" Henri asked, though his tone suggested he already knew things had gotten complicated.
"Define successful."
"You're alive, building's still standing, and you don't smell like jail." Henri's grin faded when he saw his expression. "What went wrong?"
"Assassins Guild. They were waiting for me."
Henri's face went pale. "How many?"
"Five. Led by Bella Donna."
"Merde." Henri rubbed his face with both hands. "Jean-Luc's gonna lose his mind. Come on, better get this over with."
The warehouse interior smelled of river water, motor oil, and decades of cigarette smoke. Guild members clustered around workbenches and planning tables, their conversations dying as he passed. News traveled fast in the criminal underworld, and everyone could sense storm clouds gathering.
Jean-Luc LeBeau held court in the warehouse's main office—a glass-walled cube that allowed the Guild patriarch to survey his domain while conducting business. At fifty-five, he carried himself with the kind of authority that came from surviving four decades of Guild politics. Gray hair, weathered hands, and eyes that missed nothing.
"Show me," Jean-Luc said without preamble.
He placed the Heart of New Orleans on the patriarch's desk, watching Jean-Luc's expression carefully. The older man leaned forward, studying the artifact with professional interest.
"Magnificent," Jean-Luc murmured. "Client will be pleased."
"About that client—"
"Doesn't matter who they are." Jean-Luc's voice carried the finality of someone used to being obeyed. "Contract's fulfilled, payment's earned, Guild's honor preserved."
"What about the Assassins Guild?"
Jean-Luc's expression darkened. "That's the problem, boy. Bella Donna Boudreaux made formal complaint this morning. Claims you violated territorial agreements, stole from family property, broke peace accords that've kept both Guilds from open warfare for six years."
The office suddenly felt very small. Through the glass walls, he could see other Guild members watching their conversation with the kind of fascination people reserved for car wrecks.
"They were trying to steal the same target—"
"Doesn't matter!" Jean-Luc slammed his hand on the desk hard enough to make the artifact jump. "You started this mess, you fix it. Or both Guilds burn New Orleans to the ground fighting, and that's blood on your hands."
Henri leaned forward from his chair near the door. "What kind of fix are we talking about?"
Jean-Luc's smile had all the warmth of winter moonlight. "Traditional solution. You marry Bella Donna Boudreaux, unite the Guilds through blood alliance, everyone goes home happy."
The words hit him like cold water. "Marry her?"
"Problem with that arrangement?" Jean-Luc's tone suggested refusing wasn't really an option.
Henri whispered urgently, leaning close enough that only he could hear: "Gambit and Bella Donna were engaged years ago. Political marriage arranged by both families when they were teenagers. He called it off suddenly when they turned twenty-one, never explained why. Broke her heart, nearly started Guild war back then too."
Political marriage. Of course. The fragments of Remy's memories made more sense now—not a romance that had grown cold, but a duty he'd abandoned for reasons no one understood.
"Jean-Luc, I need time to think—"
"No time left for thinking." The patriarch's voice brooked no argument. "Bella Donna's requesting formal meeting tonight. Neutral ground, St. Louis Cathedral garden. You'll attend, you'll apologize for whatever stupidity caused this situation, and you'll negotiate solution that doesn't end with both our families bleeding in the streets."
"And if I refuse?"
Jean-Luc's expression went flat as slate. "Then you're no longer Guild member, and what happens to you after that ain't my concern."
The meeting ended with the weight of an ultimatum. Henri walked him to the warehouse entrance, his usual easy humor replaced by grim concern.
"You gonna tell me what really happened last night?" Henri asked. "Because something's got you spooked worse than simple heist gone wrong."
He wanted to tell Henri everything—the precognition, the Void energy, the way Bella Donna had looked at him like he was a stranger wearing Remy's face. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up with secrets he couldn't share.
"I'll handle it."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
St. Louis Cathedral garden at sunset felt like stepping into a painting. Ancient oak trees draped with Spanish moss created natural archways over brick pathways, while the cathedral's spires rose like prayers made stone. According to Guild law, this was neutral ground—violence forbidden, sanctuary guaranteed, a place where even blood feuds could be discussed without bloodshed.
Bella Donna waited beside the iron fence that separated the garden from Royal Street. She'd traded her midnight black leathers for a sundress that emphasized her dangerous beauty, but the way she carried herself still suggested immediate violence was always an option.
"Punctual as always," she said without turning around. "Some things never change."
"Bella—"
"Don't." She faced him then, and he was struck again by how perfectly her features balanced elegance and lethal competence. "Don't call me that. Not after three years of silence."
They walked deeper into the garden, away from the street noise and curious tourists. The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold and shadow, beautiful enough to make him forget momentarily why they were here.
"You have questions," he said finally.
"Three years' worth." Her voice carried carefully controlled anger. "Three years since you left without explanation, without goodbye, without even basic courtesy of telling me why our engagement was suddenly meaningless."
Engagement. The word twisted in his chest like a knife. Remy had been engaged to this magnificent, dangerous woman and had thrown it away for reasons no one understood.
"I was young—"
"We were both young. That didn't stop you from promising to love me forever." She stopped walking, turning to face him completely. "What happened, Remy? What changed?"
The question hung between them like a challenge. He could feel her pain beneath the anger, could sense how much his abandonment had cost her. But he didn't have answers that wouldn't destroy what little remained of her trust.
"Maybe I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment—"
"Bullshit." The word cracked like a whip. "You weren't scared of commitment. You were scared of me. Of us. Of what we could have been together."
As she spoke, warmth began building in his chest. The same empathic influence he'd used on Michelle at the archives, flowing out without conscious direction. He could see its effect immediately—her rigid posture softening, anger giving way to something warmer.
"I know things ended badly between us," he said, letting the charm flow into his voice. "But maybe this is a chance to start over, to build something new—"
The slap came out of nowhere, sharp enough to rock his head back and leave his cheek stinging.
"Don't you dare!" Her eyes blazed with fury that had nothing to do with supernatural influence. "Don't you dare use that on me!"
He took a step backward, hand rising instinctively to his burning cheek. "Use what?"
"Whatever that was. That thing you do that makes people trust you more than they should." Her voice dripped contempt. "I felt it working, tried to ignore it, but I'm not some tourist you can charm into buying overpriced jewelry."
She knows. She actually knows about the empathic manipulation.
"Bella, I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." She circled him like a predator sizing up prey. "Question is, how long have you been able to do that? Because if you used it on me when we were together, if any of what I felt was artificial—"
"No." The word came out with more force than he'd intended. "Whatever was between us, it was real. I swear to you, it was real."
She studied his face for a long moment, searching for deception. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her, because some of the tension left her shoulders.
"Then why did you leave?"
"I don't know." The honesty felt like confession. "I wish I could explain it, but I can't remember what I was thinking back then. It's like there's a gap where those memories should be."
"Convenient."
"It's the truth."
They found a bench beneath one of the massive oak trees, sitting far enough apart to avoid accidental contact but close enough to talk without raising their voices. The cathedral bells marked the hour—seven chimes that echoed across the Vieux Carré like a countdown.
"Tell me about the client," he said. "Henri mentioned the Assassins Guild was hired too."
Bella Donna's expression grew troubled. "Anonymous contact, same as yours. Payment up front, no questions asked. But something felt wrong about the whole arrangement."
"Wrong how?"
"Client knew too much. About Guild politics, about family histories, about things that aren't common knowledge." She hugged her arms around herself, suddenly looking vulnerable despite her deadly reputation. "When I met him in person, he had these eyes... red on black, like yours but wrong somehow. Predatory."
Ice water flooded his veins. "Red on black eyes?"
"You know him?"
Sinister. The name rose from comic book memories like a warning bell. Nathaniel Essex, master geneticist, immortal manipulator, collector of mutant specimens. Someone who would definitely be interested in artifacts connected to dimensional energy.
"Maybe. What did he want with the Heart?"
"Same thing you wanted, I assume. But Remy..." She reached out as if to touch his hand, then stopped herself. "There's something different about you tonight. You move the same, sound the same, but it's like you're trying to remember how to be yourself."
Too close to the truth. He deflected with questions about practical matters—Guild politics, territorial agreements, potential solutions to the current crisis. But her words haunted him.
"What if we united the Guilds?" she asked eventually. "Not through marriage, but through alliance against common threats? This client, whoever he is, he's playing both sides. Maybe it's time we stopped letting outsiders manipulate us."
The proposal made sense tactically. But it also meant working closely with someone who had every reason to hate him, who knew Remy well enough to spot the differences in his personality.
"That could work," he said carefully.
"Could work, or will work?" She stood from the bench, smoothing her dress with practiced grace. "Because I need to know if you're with me, Remy. Really with me, not just going through the motions until you disappear again."
The question demanded honesty he couldn't give. He was attracted to her—how could he not be? She was beautiful, dangerous, intelligent enough to see through his supernatural charm. But he wasn't the man she'd loved, and building a relationship on that foundation felt like another kind of theft.
"I want to try," he said finally. "But I can't promise I'm the same man you remember."
Something flickered across her face—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.
"You really have changed," she said softly. "The Remy I knew would have made grand promises he couldn't keep. You're being... honest."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know yet."
She walked away without looking back, leaving him alone in the gathering darkness. The cathedral garden felt different after she left—larger, emptier, haunted by conversations they'd never have and promises that belonged to someone else.
Henri found him there twenty minutes later, approaching with the cautious gait of someone delivering bad news.
"How'd it go?"
"Complicated."
"That's what I was afraid of." Henri settled onto the bench beside him, studying his profile in the lamplight. "You gonna tell me what really happened to you, brother? Because that wasn't the conversation of a man who remembers loving her."
The question hit too close to home. Henri's concern was genuine—the kind of love that noticed when someone was drowning and offered help instead of judgment.
"Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought," he said, which was almost true if you counted dying and transmigrating as head trauma.
"Maybe." But Henri's tone suggested he wasn't buying it. "Just... be careful, alright? Bella Donna's dangerous when she's hurt, and you've hurt her more than anyone else ever has."
They walked back through the French Quarter in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The city pulsed around them with its usual evening energy—jazz music drifting from open doors, tourists stumbling between bars, locals navigating the crowds with practiced ease.
I'm living someone else's life, he thought, watching Henri joke with a street musician they passed. Inheriting his mistakes, his enemies, his broken relationships. How long can I keep this up before someone figures out the truth?
The Heart of New Orleans pulsed once against his ribs, warm with dimensional energy that felt like a promise or a threat.
Somewhere in the city, a man with red-on-black eyes was planning his next move, orchestrating Guild politics like chess pieces on a board that spanned realities.
And tomorrow, he would have to figure out how to be Remy LeBeau for one more day without losing himself completely.
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