Chapter 9: Dinner and Complications
A week had passed since the warehouse confrontation, and New Orleans was breathing easier.
No new disappearances. No comatose victims drained of blood. The vampire mutants had vanished into whatever hidden corners of the city offered better shelter than an abandoned warehouse, and NOPD had quietly closed the case as "resolved through ongoing investigation."
He was practicing construct formation in his apartment—trying to extend the duration of the energy barriers beyond their current fifteen-second limit—when his phone rang.
"Remy?" Marissa's voice carried a warmth that made him forget about energy manipulation entirely. "You free tonight?"
"Depends. You arresting me for something?"
"Dinner. My treat." There was a smile in her voice, the kind that made him wish he could see her face. "You saved lives last week. Least I can do is buy you a decent meal."
Panic hit him—the good kind, mixed with anticipation and terror in equal measure. "You asking me on a date, Detective Chen?"
"I'm asking if you want to have dinner with someone who thinks you might be more interesting than your rap sheet suggests."
"That's the nicest way anyone's ever called me a criminal with potential."
"Seven o'clock. Antoine's. Try not to steal anything on the way."
She hung up before he could respond, leaving him staring at the phone with a grin he couldn't suppress.
A date. An actual date. With someone who knows about the powers and doesn't seem terrified.
But the grin faded as reality set in. How was he supposed to have an authentic relationship when he possessed supernatural charisma? How would he ever know if her feelings were genuine or artificially influenced?
Only one way to find out.
Antoine's Restaurant had been serving New Orleans society since 1840, and it showed. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over dark wood paneling and white tablecloths, while the scent of classic Creole cuisine filled the air with promises of culinary excellence. It was the kind of place where proposals happened and business deals were sealed over brandy and cigars.
It was also completely wrong for someone like him.
Marissa had arrived first, looking elegant in a black dress that managed to be both professional and alluring. She'd chosen a corner table with clear sightlines to all entrances—detective instincts even in social settings.
"You clean up nice, LeBeau." She gestured to his attempt at formal wear—dark suit borrowed from Remy's closet, white shirt that felt like it was strangling him. "Almost respectable."
"Don't get used to it. This monkey suit's borrowed time."
As he settled into his chair, he made a conscious decision that felt like stepping off a cliff. He reached for the warm sensation in his chest—the empathic charm that had become second nature—and deliberately suppressed it.
The effect was immediate and brutal.
Pain lanced through his skull like someone had driven an ice pick behind his right eye. His enhanced senses seemed to dial back several notches, colors becoming less vivid, sounds less distinct. Worst of all, the constant low-level confidence that came from knowing people wanted to like him simply... vanished.
"You alright?" Marissa leaned forward, concern flickering across her face. "You look like someone just walked over your grave."
"Headache. Nothing serious."
"We can reschedule if—"
"No." The word came out more forcefully than intended. "I mean, I'm fine. Tell me about your day. Catch any interesting criminals?"
For the next hour, he discovered what Marissa Chen was like when she wasn't working a case that involved supernatural complications. She was funny—dry wit that caught him off guard and made him laugh despite the splitting headache. She was passionate about her work, talking about becoming a detective to help people who couldn't help themselves, growing up in an immigrant family where every achievement came with the weight of parental sacrifice.
"My dad wanted me to be a doctor," she said, cutting into her redfish with practiced precision. "Stable career, good money, respectable. When I told him I was joining the police academy, he didn't speak to me for three months."
"What changed his mind?"
"Time. And seeing that I was good at it." She paused, studying his face in the candlelight. "What about you? Always want to be a professional criminal?"
The question hit closer to home than she could possibly know. What had he wanted to be before dying and waking up in someone else's life? The memories felt distant now, like scenes from a movie he'd watched years ago.
"Honestly? I wanted to be a teacher. History, specifically." The words surprised him—he hadn't planned to admit that. "Ironic, considering I spent most of school skipping classes."
"History teacher turned master thief. There's a story there."
"Life's complicated."
"It doesn't have to be." She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. The contact sent warmth shooting up his arm that had nothing to do with mutant abilities. "I like this version of you better than the charming thief."
"This version?"
"Honest. Less smooth, more real." Her thumb traced across his knuckles. "When we first met, you had this... presence. Like you were performing instead of talking. Tonight you seem more yourself."
Because I'm not using supernatural manipulation to make you like me. The thought made his chest tight with something that might have been hope.
"Marissa, about the powers—"
"Tell me." Her detective instincts sharpened, but her hand remained on his. "I need to understand what I'm getting into."
He demonstrated carefully—charging a breadstick until it glowed faintly pink, creating a construct no larger than a playing card that shimmered in the candlelight for a few seconds before dissipating. Nothing dramatic enough to cause property damage or draw unwanted attention.
"Kinetic energy manipulation. Temporary force constructs." He paused, then decided on honesty. "And empathic influence. I can make people like me more than they should."
Her eyes sharpened. "Are you using it now?"
"No. That's why I have this headache—deliberately suppressing it."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know if this is real."
The admission hung between them like a confession. Marissa studied his face for a long moment, then smiled—not the polite expression of someone being charmed, but genuine warmth.
"Everyone manipulates everyone, Remy. We just do it with words, body language, carefully chosen clothes." She squeezed his hand. "The difference is you're honest about your advantage."
"It doesn't feel like an advantage. It feels like cheating."
"Then don't use it. At least not with me."
The simple statement carried more weight than any supernatural influence. She was choosing to trust him despite knowing he could manipulate her emotions. More than that—she was asking him to choose authenticity over easy victory.
"I can do that."
"Good." She leaned closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume beneath the restaurant's ambient scents of butter and wine. "Because I'd really like to see where this goes."
She was going to kiss him. He could see it in the way her eyes flickered to his lips, in the slight forward lean of her body. The moment balanced on a knife's edge of possibility—
"Remy!"
Henri's voice cut through the restaurant's elegant atmosphere like a chainsaw. The maître d' was already moving to intercept the leather-clad figure striding between tables with complete disregard for proper dining etiquette, but Henri had the kind of urgent energy that suggested this wasn't a social visit.
"Brother, we got a problem. Big problem."
"Henri—" He started to stand, torn between duty and the woman across from him who was watching this interruption with the patience of someone accustomed to having her romantic moments disrupted by work emergencies.
"Guild emergency," Henri said, lowering his voice but not his urgency. "Both Guilds. Jean-Luc wants everyone at the neutral house. Now."
Both Guilds. That meant politics had escalated beyond normal territorial disputes into something that threatened the fragile peace between Thieves and Assassins.
Marissa was already reaching for her purse, understanding written across her face. "Rain check?"
"Marissa, I'm sorry—"
"Go handle your family drama." She stood, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek that sent electricity through his entire nervous system. "But call me tomorrow. We're not done with this conversation."
He followed Henri toward the exit, looking back once to see her settling the check with the kind of calm competence that made him want to abandon Guild politics entirely.
"Finally found a girl who tolerates your ugly face," Henri muttered as they reached the street, "and you leave her for Guild politics. You really did hit your head."
"What's the emergency?"
Henri's expression went grim. "Someone stole the Heart of New Orleans."
The words hit him like ice water. "From Guild headquarters?"
"From the vault. Supposedly impossible to crack without inside knowledge." Henri flagged down a taxi with the efficiency of someone who'd spent his life navigating urban emergencies. "Both sides are blaming each other. Jean-Luc thinks the Assassins staged a theft to get their artifact back. Marius Boudreaux thinks we're playing games."
"When did this happen?"
"Sometime between yesterday night and this morning. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were looking for and how to get it."
As the taxi wound through the French Quarter toward the neutral ground where Guild meetings were held, dread settled in his stomach like lead. Sinister had orchestrated the vampire mutant incident to study his powers. The mysterious client who'd hired both Guilds to steal the Heart in the first place.
This isn't coincidence. This is chess, and we're all pawns.
The neutral house sat on the boundary between traditionally Thieves Guild and Assassins Guild territory—a century-old mansion that had hosted peace negotiations, marriage contracts, and the occasional duel when diplomacy failed. Tonight, it felt like a powder keg with a lit fuse.
Cars lined both sides of the street, representing the elite of both criminal organizations. Through the windows, he could see figures in heated discussion, gestures sharp with anger and accusation.
"Remember," Henri said as they approached the front entrance, "you're the one who brought this artifact back. That gives you standing to speak, but also makes you target for blame if things go wrong."
"Wonderful."
"Also, try not to let either side know about those new powers of yours. Bad enough they think you're witch-touched after that casino incident last year."
"Casino incident?"
"Long story. Ask me later if we survive this."
Inside, the mansion's grand parlor had been divided into armed camps. Thieves Guild members clustered on the left side of the room, Assassins Guild on the right, with a no-man's-land of Persian carpet between them. The tension was thick enough to charge, crackling with the kind of energy that preceded violence.
Jean-Luc LeBeau stood near the marble fireplace, his weathered face set in lines of barely controlled fury. Across from him, a man who could only be Marius Boudreaux—Bella Donna's father—radiated the same dangerous calm as his daughter.
And there, standing slightly behind her father but clearly present as more than decoration, was Bella Donna herself. She caught his eye as he entered, something flickering across her face that might have been relief or concern.
"Gentlemen," Jean-Luc's voice cut through the murmur of conversations. "Now that we're all here, perhaps someone can explain how the most secure vault in New Orleans was opened without triggering a single alarm."
Marius Boudreaux stepped forward, his presence commanding the room's attention. "Perhaps someone with inside knowledge felt the artifact belonged elsewhere."
"You accusing us of theft, Boudreaux?"
"I'm suggesting that convenient timing makes convenient enemies."
The protagonist found himself standing in the middle of the room, both factions looking to him for answers he didn't have. His danger sense hummed constantly, picking up the potential for violence from a dozen different sources.
"With respect," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, "maybe we should consider the possibility that neither Guild is responsible. Someone wanted that artifact badly enough to hire both organizations to steal it. Maybe they decided to cut out the middlemen."
"Convenient theory," Marius said, his voice carrying the same sharp edge as his daughter's. "Suggests an enemy that doesn't exist to avoid uncomfortable questions about loyalty."
"Or suggests someone's playing us against each other," Bella Donna said quietly. "Making us destroy ourselves while they collect the pieces."
Her father's sharp look suggested she was speaking out of turn, but she met his gaze steadily. In that moment, she looked like her father's daughter—intelligent, dangerous, and unafraid to voice unpopular truths.
The meeting dissolved into accusations and threats, voices raised in anger that had been simmering for years beneath the surface of Guild politics. Through it all, his precognitive sense grew stronger, responding to some approaching danger his conscious mind couldn't yet identify.
Something's coming. Something bad.
But the warning remained frustratingly vague, like trying to see through fog. All he knew was that tonight would end in blood, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
Outside, in the darkness beyond the mansion's security lights, someone watched the proceedings with inhuman patience and smiled at how perfectly the pieces were falling into place.
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