Chapter 7: Vampire Problems
Three nights since the heist, and he was running out of places to hide.
The Heart of New Orleans sat in Guild headquarters, delivered to Jean-Luc with minimal explanation and maximum relief. The artifact's warm pulse against his chest had been replaced by the cold weight of unresolved problems—Bella Donna's hurt expression, Guild politics that demanded decisions he wasn't ready to make, questions about mysterious clients with red-on-black eyes.
So instead of dealing with any of it, he told himself he was being heroic.
The French Quarter after midnight was a different creature than its daytime tourist persona. Music still drifted from late-night establishments, but the crowds had thinned to locals, insomniacs, and people who preferred darkness to daylight. He moved through the shadows between buildings, telling himself he was patrolling for trouble while knowing he was really just avoiding his apartment and the phone calls from Henri that he'd been ignoring.
Precognition makes me useful, he rationalized. I can sense trouble before it happens, help people who need it.
The danger sense had become a constant companion since the mansion heist—a low-level hum at the back of his mind that spiked whenever potential violence drew near. Right now it was practically singing, responding to something ahead near Jackson Square.
Blue and red lights painted the cathedral walls in urgent colors. Police cars, an ambulance, crime scene tape cordoning off a section of the square where tourists usually gathered to watch street performers.
He approached cautiously, enhanced senses picking up fragments of conversation from the investigating officers:
"—fifth one in two weeks—" "—completely drained, but still breathing—" "—locals talking about vampires—"
Vampires. In New Orleans. Because of course.
A woman in a dark pantsuit stood near the center of the activity, notepad in hand as she questioned witnesses. Even from a distance, he could tell she was law enforcement—the way she carried herself, the methodical manner of her questioning, the practiced calm that came from dealing with the city's worst on a regular basis.
And she was beautiful.
Asian features, shoulder-length black hair that caught the streetlight, an intelligence in her expression that suggested she missed very little. When she turned in his direction, their eyes met across the crime scene tape.
Her gaze sharpened immediately, the look of someone who'd just spotted a person of interest.
"You!" She strode toward him with purposeful steps. "Stay right there."
"Evening, Officer...?"
"Detective Chen, NOPD." She flashed her badge with one hand while studying his face with uncomfortable intensity. "I know you, LeBeau. Thief family. Your sheet's as long as my arm."
"All alleged." He offered his most disarming smile, letting just a hint of charm warm his voice. "And you got me confused with my wild cousins."
The empathic influence was subtle—barely a whisper compared to what he'd accidentally done with the building superintendent. Just enough to take the sharp edge off her suspicion, to make her willing to hear him out instead of immediately calling for backup.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, but her tone had shifted slightly. Still professional, but curious rather than hostile.
"Same as everyone else. Heard sirens, came to see what happened."
"Right." She glanced at her notepad, then back at him. "Five people in two weeks, all found in the same condition. Completely drained of blood but still alive, barely conscious. Locals are calling them vampire attacks."
"Vampires in the French Quarter. Tourist board's gonna love that."
"It's not funny, LeBeau." But there was something in her expression—exhaustion mixed with frustration. "These people are barely clinging to life. Whatever did this to them, it's escalating."
The genuine concern in her voice hit him unexpectedly. This wasn't just another case to her—she cared about the victims, wanted to find whoever was responsible.
"You got any leads?"
"Why? You offering to help?" The question came out more skeptical than sarcastic.
"Maybe. Depends on what you need."
She studied him for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to trust someone with his family reputation. The charm helped tip the scales, but he could see her detective instincts warring with whatever positive impression he was making.
"All the victims were last seen at the same place," she said finally. "Goth club called Sangre, down on Magazine Street. Owner claims he's never seen any of them, but witnesses place them there hours before they were found."
"Want some company checking it out?"
"Why would you want to help? What's in it for you?"
The question caught him off guard with its directness. What was in it for him? He could claim altruism, but that felt like a lie. The truth was more complicated—guilt over living Remy's life, a need to prove he could be something more than a thief, genuine attraction to a woman who treated him like a person instead of a criminal stereotype.
"Maybe I'm tired of people assuming the worst about me," he said, which was closer to honest than most things he'd told anyone lately.
Something shifted in her expression. "Meet me tomorrow night, nine PM. Sangre's busiest then. And LeBeau?" She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume beneath the scents of coffee and crime scene chemicals. "If you're playing some angle, if this is setup for a con or a heist, I will personally make sure you never see daylight again."
"Understood, Detective Chen."
"Marissa," she said, offering her hand. "If we're doing this, might as well use first names."
Her grip was firm, confident. No-nonsense. When their hands touched, he felt a spark that had nothing to do with his mutant abilities—just genuine attraction to someone who seemed to see him clearly despite his reputation.
"Remy," he said, though the name still felt strange in his mouth.
"I know who you are, Remy LeBeau. Question is whether you know who you want to be."
She walked away before he could respond, leaving him standing behind crime scene tape with the uncomfortable feeling that she'd seen more than he'd intended to show.
Twenty-four hours later, Magazine Street pulsed with the kind of energy that attracted people who preferred their entertainment after dark. Sangre occupied a converted antebellum mansion, its elegant exterior painted matte black and decorated with wrought iron that managed to be both beautiful and vaguely threatening.
Marissa waited for him outside, having traded her detective pantsuit for dark jeans and a leather jacket that didn't entirely conceal the shoulder holster beneath. She looked younger in civilian clothes, though her eyes retained that sharp intelligence that missed nothing.
"Ready for this?" she asked.
"Define ready."
"Smart answer."
The bouncer was a mountain of muscle with facial tattoos and the kind of stare that suggested violence was always an option. He looked them over with obvious suspicion until the protagonist let a whisper of charm color his voice.
"Evening, friend. Heard good things about this place."
The bouncer's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Cover's twenty each. No cameras, no weapons, no trouble."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Inside, Sangre lived up to its name. Everything was black and red—walls, furniture, lighting that cast deep shadows between pools of crimson illumination. The music was electronic with gothic undertones, loud enough to make conversation difficult but not quite overwhelming. Patrons clustered around the bar and scattered seating areas, most dressed in variations of black leather and pale makeup.
But it was the atmosphere that made his newly awakened danger sense hum.
Predatory, he realized. Like being in a cage with hungry animals.
Three individuals stood out immediately, though it took his enhanced senses to understand why. They moved through the crowd with fluid grace that seemed almost inhuman, pale skin and sharp features that suggested they might not be entirely healthy. More importantly, other patrons gravitated toward them with the kind of fascination people usually reserved for celebrities or open flames.
"See them?" Marissa whispered, leaning close enough that her breath tickled his ear.
"The pale ones? Yeah."
"They've been here every night this week. Always leave with someone different, always someone who matches our victim profile."
One of the three—a woman with platinum hair and blood-red lipstick—caught his stare from across the room. She smiled, revealing teeth that seemed slightly too sharp, then turned back to the young man she'd been talking to. The man's expression was glazed, almost hypnotized.
"Stay here," he told Marissa. "Watch the exits."
"What are you planning?"
"Improvising."
He made his way through the crowd, following instincts he'd inherited from Remy's Guild training. Stay casual, blend in, don't act like you're hunting until you're ready to strike. The woman with platinum hair led her hypnotized companion toward a back hallway marked "Private."
The hallway was poorly lit, lined with doors that probably led to storage rooms or private party spaces. He could hear voices from behind the third door—the woman's cultured accent mixed with soft moans that could have been pleasure or distress.
"Thieves shouldn't spy."
The voice came from behind him, low and amused. He turned to find one of the other pale individuals—a man with dark hair and eyes like chips of obsidian. Up close, his inhuman nature was more obvious. Too-pale skin that seemed almost translucent, movements that flowed like water, an otherworldly beauty that was both attractive and deeply unsettling.
"Just looking for the bathroom," he said.
"Wrong door. Bathroom's at the end of the hall." The pale man stepped closer, and the protagonist's precognition spiked violently. "Question is, what's a Guild thief doing in our territory?"
Time slowed as danger sense screamed warnings.
Attack incoming from the left—knife thrust aimed at his ribs. He spun away, hand diving into his jacket for the playing cards that had become his signature weapons. Pink energy crackled around his fingers as he charged an ace of spades mid-motion.
The pale man moved faster than anything human, crossing the distance between them in a blur. But precognition gave him the advantage, showing him exactly where the attack would land two seconds before it happened.
He threw the charged card at point-blank range.
The explosion lit up the narrow hallway, but instead of the satisfying impact he'd expected, his attacker flowed around the blast like smoke, reforming behind him with impossible speed.
"Interesting," the pale man said, seemingly unaffected by an explosion that should have left him unconscious. "But you'll have to do better than that."
The fight that erupted was unlike anything he'd experienced since awakening in Remy's body. His opponents moved with supernatural grace and strength, coordinated like a pack of wolves. The woman emerged from the private room, her companion stumbling behind her with glassy eyes and fresh puncture wounds on his neck.
Vampires. Actual vampires. Or close enough.
He threw charged cards with desperate precision, using precognition to stay one step ahead of attacks that came from multiple directions simultaneously. But they were faster than his human reflexes, stronger than his enhanced physiology, and seemed to shrug off damage that would have felled normal opponents.
Then something new happened.
Panic flooded his system as claws raked across his ribs, drawing blood and ruining his favorite jacket. In that moment of absolute desperation, he reached for power he didn't know he possessed.
A playing card in his left hand began to unfold.
Not explode—unfold, like origami in reverse. Pink energy flowed around it as it expanded and solidified into something impossible: a shimmering barrier the size of a trash can lid, translucent but definitely solid.
The next claw strike bounced off it with a sound like breaking glass.
"What the hell—" the dark-haired vampire started to say.
The barrier lasted exactly four seconds before dissolving back into scattered energy. But four seconds was enough for him to throw another charged card, this one finding its target in the vampire's shoulder and sending him crashing into the wall.
"NOPD! Everyone freeze!"
Marissa's voice cut through the chaos as she appeared at the end of the hallway, service weapon drawn and backup flooding in behind her. The vampires took one look at the armed police officers and promptly vanished—not running, but actually fading into shadow like something out of a movie.
He stood in the aftermath, breathing hard, staring at his hands where pink energy still flickered around his fingers. The barrier was gone, but the memory of its weight and solidity remained.
"What the hell are you?" Marissa asked, her gun still drawn but pointed at the floor. Her eyes were fixed on his hands, on the fading energy signature that marked him as something more than human.
"It's complicated."
The police station's fluorescent lighting felt harsh after the club's atmospheric darkness. He sat in an interview room that smelled of industrial coffee and institutional disinfectant, giving a statement that was carefully edited to avoid mentioning supernatural powers or dimensional artifacts.
"So you're telling me," Marissa said, reviewing her notes with the patience of someone who'd heard a lot of strange stories, "that three individuals with superhuman strength and speed attacked you in a nightclub, and you fought them off with... what exactly?"
"Self-defense training."
"Right." She set down her pen and looked at him directly. "Remy, I saw your hands glowing. I saw you create some kind of shield out of thin air. Either you're a magician with really good special effects, or there's something you're not telling me."
The moment balanced on a knife's edge. Marissa was smart, observant, and had just witnessed him use mutant abilities in combat. He could try to lie, use charm to make her forget or dismiss what she'd seen, but something in her expression stopped him.
She saw me protect people. She saw me choose to help instead of run.
"I'm a mutant," he said quietly. "Kinetic energy manipulation, among other things. I can charge objects with explosive force."
"And the shield?"
"New development. Still figuring it out myself."
She studied him for a long moment, processing this information with the methodical approach of someone trained to gather facts and build cases.
"Why did you help tonight? You could have walked away, avoided the whole mess."
"Because people needed help."
"That's it? No angle, no profit, no hidden agenda?"
"That's it."
Something shifted in her expression—not quite trust, but a willingness to consider the possibility that he might be telling the truth.
"You're different from your file, LeBeau. Your family's got a reputation for looking out for themselves first, everyone else a distant second."
"Maybe I'm trying to be different."
"Maybe." She gathered up her notes and stood. "Those things we fought tonight—they're not vampires, are they? They're like you. Mutants."
"Probably. Blood-draining powers, enhanced speed and strength. Feeding on people to survive."
"And you think that's wrong?"
The question caught him off guard. "Don't you?"
"I think it's complicated." She moved toward the door, then paused. "If they're mutants just trying to survive, and they're not killing anyone... maybe the real question is why society forces them to live in the shadows."
She left him alone in the interview room with that thought, and the uncomfortable realization that Detective Marissa Chen was exactly the kind of person who could make him want to be better than he'd ever been before.
Outside, dawn was breaking over New Orleans, painting the sky in shades that matched his energy signature.
Tomorrow, he would have to figure out what to do about vampire mutants, Guild politics, and a detective who'd seen too much.
Tonight, he was just grateful to be alive.
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