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De Portentis - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by HF
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 1

"Henri, he's stayin', and for de last time, it's *final*." Jean-Luc LeBeau glared at his son, a glare that would bring the rest of the Guild to submission, but this time was only met with intractability. "An' you can consider dis t' be orders from de Patriarch, an' not from yo' father, is dat understood? Guild mandate, M. LeBeau."

The young man glowered but wisely said nothing. After a long moment of staring into Jean-Luc's unwavering eyes, Henri redirected his hostility to its original target: the ten-year-old working his way up the twisted trunk of the banyan tree in the backyard. "'S just…" Henri trailed off, obviously uncertain as to whether or not to pursue the matter after his father's-his *Patriarch's*-decree had closed it to discussion, "… you said saw what kind a' trouble he caused when he was a few days old," he said bitterly, "an' den you had t' give him to dat child molester, den *Fagan*…" Henri's voice dripped with contempt, and Jean-Luc was uncertain as to whether it applied to the Antiquary or to Fagan, one of whom had a taste for children and the other of whom who was a tainted exile and an outcast. Probably, he thought, it was both. "De rest a' the Guild t'inks de same way, Father-you're bringin' in an outsider, an outsider who got de *devil's* eyes."

A snort escaped Jean-Luc before he could stop it, and Henri recoiled in the face of his father's obvious derision. "De 'devil's eyes'?" he repeated, raising his voice slightly to make it into a sarcastic question. "You startin' t' sound like Richard an' Louis an' all de rest of dem," Jean-Luc said, "carryin' on 'bout superstitions an' demons an' God only knows what else. You gon' start crossin' y'self, Henri, every time dat boy crosses your path? You t'ink maybe his touch gon' make de banyan die? Maybe he bad luck, hey?" Jean-Luc was dimly aware that he had lost control of his voice and was on the brink of shouting, but strangely, he didn't care. "Or maybe de rest a' de clan *jealous*, 'cause dere's a boy who dey t'ink might have a shot at power in de Guild one day, who knows? Maybe *he* be de Patriarch, stead o' one a' dem."

Henri stared at the floor. The kitchen where the two men sat echoed with the remainders of Jean-Luc's words. Fortunately, the place was deserted. Tante Mattie, the Guild's resident truce-maker, had left to do some errands revolving around the new arrival, leaving father and son to bitter words. The object of their debate played, oblivious, outside.

"Or maybe it's dat de boy is a mutant, an' we all know dat mutants are more trouble dan dey're worth," Jean-Luc finished sarcastically. "Dat sounds a lot like somet'in' Louis would say. Richard I leave to all de superstitious worryin'. Soon he gon' be goin' on 'bout how de moon's gon' turn ta blood an' de sun inta sackcloth on 'ccount o' dis boy. Maybe de whore of Babylon be puttin' in an appearance at his next birthday."

"Papa, you ain't listenin'!" Henri said, gaze still fixed on the tiles of the kitchen floor. "You're makin' light a' somet'in' dat ain't funny."

"I find it hysterical," Jean-Luc replied, "but keep talkin'."

"De Rochambeaux family an' de DesChamps want a referendum on de boy," Henri told him, voice lowered as if the boy could really hear them from fifty feet and a thick glass door away. "An' Louis or Richard didn' have anyt'in' t' do wit de decision."

"Like hell," Jean-Luc shot back. "All Louis has t' do is bat his eyes an' his daddy does any'tin' he wants him to. I ain't never seen a man-even a T'ief-as whipped as Jean-Claude is, an' by his own son, no less."

"Jean-Claude's wife died when Louis was six," Henri interrupted. "De man *does* have a reason for actin' de way he does."

"Whatever." Jean-Luc brushed off the explanation. "If Louis Rochambeau wants a referendum, den he's gettin' it, no matter what his daddy has t' do. Sometimes I wonder how it is we let dat boy go t'rough de tilling-an' how he *got* t'rough, for dat matter."

"Louis *is* a good t'ief, Papa," Henri said dryly, "an' dat gives him influence in de rest a' de Guild, no matter how spoiled he is. An' de DesChamps have *always* been powerful-dey sided wit de Antiquary, didn' dey, in de decision t' give up de boy to him? Maybe dey be wantin' him ta go back…" He paused, as if considering his own words, and shuddered. "Dat's a fate I don' wish on any kid, no matter how much of a pest he is."

"Boy gettin' on your nerves, Henri?"

"On my nerves, in my t'ings… You name it, he's gotten into it." Henri paused, as if realizing the subject was threatening to change, shook his head, and briefly resigned himself to it. "Papa… it's just… Why, after all dis time? Why you suddenly goin' all paternal on a ten-year-old street kid?"

"He ain't a street kid," Jean-Luc said. "It's not like he's comin' outta nowhere, Henri. De entire Guild knew of him practically since his birth. He been a Guild chil' since Day One, no matter who he ended up runnin' with. An' dis is de next stage of his life, when he's gon' learn how t' be a t'ief, proper, not like what Fagan teaches him t' be. An' he's gonna have a real home, real family, not like de Mob or what de Antiquary gave him… Dat, I don't even wan' t' *t'ink* about."

"So you're sayin' you've *planned* all dis?" Henri stared at his father with undisguised shock. "Dat de Antiquary, Fagan-hell, for all I know, you grabbin' him when he tried t' pick your pocket-dat was all planned out? How many other people's lives you play with, Papa?"

"In de interests of preservin' de life of my eldest son, I'm gon' pretend I didn' even hear dat," Jean-Luc said in a voice that could have frozen water on a New Orleans summer day. "Am I really gon' have t' pull rank an' impose silence on de matter once an' for all?" he asked, seeing that his son was not going to reason with him on the issue, and also knowing that whatever he said would further paint him as a life-manipulating, cold-hearted man, no matter that Henri knew that was not truly the case. There was also the tiny, harassing voice that demanded to know if manipulation was really all it was-manipulating the life of a *child*, of Henri, of the Guild… He shook his head. "Dis matter will be resolved, Henri, an de boy be stayin' wit us, no matter how de Des Champs an' all dem howl. An' dis is de end of dis discussion, is dat understood?"

"Oui… I mean, yessir," Henri mumbled.

Remy was about three-quarters of his way up the banyan tree before he looked down at the lawn spread out before him. From this height, even the house didn't look so big, and it was the biggest thing he'd ever seen in his life. He had a very dim recollection of a vast mansion whose halls went on for ages and ages, filled with velvet drapes and old statues and the musty smell of books, but he couldn't remember much more than that. His room with Fagan had been the size of a closet, although it was more than most other kids got, that was for sure. Here, though… wow. Jean-Luc, the man who he was given to understand was "in charge", had given him a gigantic room complete with his own TV and, as if that wasn't luxury enough already, a backyard to mess around in.

He thought about trying to throw something at Suzette LeBeau, who was introduced as Jean-Luc's niece. It was actually more complicated than that, the young man called Henri had informed him, but 'niece' worked well enough. For Remy, though, she was mostly a stuffy, stick-up-her-nose eleven-year-old with her face crammed in a book.

"Be nice to her," Henri had commanded him before pushing him outside with more force than was probably necessary. And, as it turned out, Remy hadn't had to worry about being nice to Suzette, mostly because she had ignored him completely from the moment he even registered in her presence. After a quick, cursory glance, she was back to reading her book. That was fine with Remy; Suzette practically *smelled* like superiority, and he hated feeling less than other people more than anything. He might have only been ten, but he knew very definitely what he liked and what he hated.

Likes: Coke, mozzarella on pizza that got burned just right, being warm at night, the thrill of the chase (both chasing and being chased), Jean-Luc LeBeau who definitely seemed to be an all-right kind of guy.

Dislikes: being made to sit still and behave, having nothing to do, yellow vegetables (including carrots), cold weather especially when it involves rain, being talked down to, fear in people's eyes when they saw his own uncanny ones glowing red and black.

The banyan tree was on the Like List, too, with its long, knobby rope-like branches and sturdy limbs, and the thick coating of leaves that hid him from view. It was the perfect ambush tree-he could throw something at Suzette and she'd never see it coming. He looked around his immediate vicinity and saw a promising lump of moss and sticks, with just enough heft to it to make it throwable. An evil grin crossed his face.

"Don't even try it." Suzette's effortlessly superior voice floated through the thick New Orleans air.

"Try what?"

"Throwing something at me," Suzette answered, not even looking up from her book. "You've been way too quiet for the past two minutes… That means you're planning something." She did look up now, and the smirk on her face was triumphant-there was no way she could see him through the mass of leaves, of course, but that made no difference. Remy felt a slow burn start somewhere down in his stomach, the kind he got when he was *really* mad. He absolutely hated that tone of voice, and that expression.

"What would you do about it if I did?" he challenged.

Suzette's expression and tone of voice did not change as she answered, "I'd get Henri to gut you like a fish. Now leave me alone… I'm trying to read."

Remy sighed and stretched out along the branch of the banyan tree, felt the warmth of the sun soak into him. Something very much like a blanket wrapped around him, something warmer even than the sun, comforting, easing him off his guard… Dimly, face pressed against the treebark, he wondered what it was. It was nice, this feeling, of just lying there with his arms and legs dangling into thin air, not having to worry for once in a very long time…

"Boy? I mean… Remy?"

It was the voice of Henri, Jean-Luc's son, which jolted him out of his reverie. Blinking and pushing his sunglasses up on his nose, he looked down at the young man, who shifted from foot to foot in a mixture of impatience and unease. The man and the boy regarded each other in silence, with Henri alternately crossing and uncrossing his arms.

"Yessir?"

"You wanna come down now?" Henri asked, inclining his head slightly to indicate the ground beneath them. "We got some business t' take care of here, an it ain't de kinda thing a kid wants t' hang around for, so I'd thought we'd do somet'in' together… Pizza, maybe? Movie?"

"Pizza *and* a movie?" He wondered briefly what had suddenly afflicted Henri, to make the young man want to spend time with him, especially considering that Remy had gotten into Henri's 'private' stuff, but was determined to milk this for everything he could. That, and Henri's flashy new red sports car was high on Remy's list of Likes. He'd driven it himself (without Henri's prior consent), and it handled pretty well.

"We're gonna take de Boxter, right?" he wanted to know.

Henri barely managed to cover up a wince. "If y' want."

Fortunately, Jean-Luc had managed to get both Henri and Remy out of the house before the Guild members arrived. Suzette, loudly protesting, had gone along with them, and the three had left in a noisy flurry over which Jean-Luc could barely hear Henri swear on his soul that they would go to Barnes & Noble right after the movie got out.

Part of Jean-Luc winced at the thought of facing the rest of the Guild without his son by his side; although it was a definite advantage, getting the rest of the thieves and Family leaders together before the Remy Issue (that was what Jean-Luc called it) came up for unofficial referendum, there was something about sending his son off to babysit… #You ain't sure of his support in dis matter yet# he thought dismally, shaking his head. #So you're gonna fight tr'ough dis on your own, jus' in case he decides he wants t' go along wit' Richard an' Louis after all.# He remembered Henri's face very clearly, the undisguised disappointment and humiliation when he had been instructed to keep Remy out of the house until the meeting was over.

#Is dat all you're doin'?# he wondered bitterly as he waited for the few remaining members to show up and looked over the ten or so representatives gathered before him. This was not even the whole Guild, just the few that could be roused to participate. #Manipulatin' people? Firs' dis lil' boy who ain't done nothin' 'cept be intriguin' t' one of de most depraved people on de face a' de planet, an' now your own son… He been t'rough de tillin' and de passages-why you send him off t' watch some action movie? Don' you trust him enough, Jean-Luc? Don' you trust nobody no more? When did dis happen, dis 'not trustin'?'#

His thoughts circled back to the first day he'd ever seen Remy, when the boy was an infant little more than a few weeks old, and the red-on-black eyes had even then glittered with secret charm. The few times he'd forced himself to go to the Antiquary's palatial, hedonistic domain, the child had been surrounded by flocks of adoring women. As the years passed, though, Jean-Luc had perceived changes in those eyes, how they took on a glow of some foreign, demonic intelligence. There had been conversations with Fagan, too…

"De kid's just a fucking nutcase," the man had said, nervously flicking his cigarette into his ashtray. He refused to look at Jean-Luc directly, but instead glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, the examination quick and slithery. "I don' know what de hell's up wit him, but you tell him 'steal de crown jewels,' 'steal Reed Richards' latest invention', an' de boy'll try it. An' hell, most o' the time, he *does* do it."

"Promising," Jean-Luc had murmured, staring at Fagan, who *did* look at him this time.

"Didn' say nothin' 'bout 'promisin', LeBeau," he had said. "He just a fuckin' nutcase. It don' matter de risk of capture, it don' matter how much de prize is worth, it don' matter if ya tell him 'Rem, you're more n' likely prolly gonna get killed'…hell, it don' matter *nothin'*-he'll do it."

"Well," Jean-Luc said, unsure whether to be amazed, impressed, or nervous about the young man he was going to take into his charge.

"Yeah, like I said," Fagan replied dryly, "a fuckin' nutcase."

That assessment was somewhat better than those arrived at by the rest of the Guild, many of whom were now talking *very* loudly about the newcomer to the LeBeau family. The controversy surrounded the possibility of the boy ever inheriting Jean-Luc's position should anything happen to Henri, what depraved ideas the Antiquary could have left him with, the idiocy of accepting a *mutant* into their ranks when every other right-thinking human being did well to avoid them… Chretien worried that not having a childhood in the Guild itself would mean compromised loyalties-every Thief was bound to the Guild and Family by ties stronger than steel, and the knots were bound almost from conception. What would they do with an outsider who could never fully understand them, could never fully *be* them? Predictably, of course, that meant Fagan was brought into it, although the Antiquary and his little clan were left out-Guillaume and Richard DesChamps, the former of whom had grown fat and imposing in his retirement, more or less assured that. But it remained unspoken, because it wasn't needed; all the Guild seniors had agreed that the boy wasn't, at heart, one of Them.

And that, of course, was part of the problem. Jean-Luc had never seen people so hidebound. Maybe it came with all the old things with which Thieves surrounded themselves: books and parchments, codices and scrolls, like the very things that populated the library in which they gathered. The stones, the books, the carpets, the old tarnished candlesticks all smelt of age.

He'd let them stew long enough, and if *he* stewed any longer, he'd be lost in his own thoughts. He stood, unfolding himself from the shadows, and called for order. The buzz of conversation vanished, and ten men stared at him silently. Jean-Luc could feel the collective weight of their regard, a very real and palpable weight, and he could see the thoughts whirling around behind the careful, professional masks they wore.

"I understand," Jean-Luc said slowly and very carefully, "dat a referendum was called on my decision t' formally adopt de boy, Remy, an' make him part a' my family. Is dat so?"

A chorus of affirmatives answered him, most of them grudging. One, though, unexpectedly from Chretien-who was not, as a rule, very bold because he was by far the youngest of the group-stood out. The younger man detached himself from the shadowy bulk of Guillaume DesChamps and looked Jean-Luc straight in the eye.

"How do we know he ain't a plant from de Assassins? How do we know he ain't gon' go runnin to de police?" he demanded. "You know de Guild codes, Jean-Luc: everyt'tin' be inside de Guild, every'tin' *stay* inside de Guild. Why you askin' for trouble wit some adopted kid? Wit a *mutant* adopted kid?"

"Are you forgettin' dat we *stole* de boy, Chretien?" LeBeau asked with deceptive mildness. "Or maybe you don' even remember, seein' as you was about fifteen at de time an' still waitin' on a registrar for your Tilling?" An unkind cut, maybe, but Chretien had it coming-he truly had been that young, and held back from the formal rites for a year and a half. "We stole him from his cradle, for de love of God, Chretien. An' after de kind a' childhood he's had so far, don' we owe it to him t' make it right?"

"Den give him to some other Guild family." This was Louis Rochambeaux, his thin, intense face unusually stark in the dim light of the subterranean library. "I'm sure none of us want to see de boy neglected of course… or left with Fagan any longer dan is necessary… but dis is borderline nepotism, Jean-Luc. You bringin' an outsider into de ruling clan-dis a power play? Jus' in case somet'in' happen to Henri, an' you don' wan' see de LeBeau dynasty come to an end?"

"Dat ain't a question you're gonna wan' t' ask again, Louis," Jean-Luc said, not even bothering to mask his fury; the words lashed out like a whip-crack, and the younger man flinched back visibly.

"Reassure us dat de boy won' be given de patriarchy as his inheritance, den," Guillaume DesChamps said. "Swear all de old oaths dat de boy will be yours in name, but specifically exempted from guild leadership." This proposal was met with wide, nearly unanimous agreement. Only a few hung back, clearly uncomfortable with gainsaying Jean-Luc in such a way, but they were the representatives of the smaller families. Philippe Desjardins opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but under the furious black weight of Guillaume's glare, shut up.

The brief threat of an interruption didn't deter Guillaume from what was obviously a planned speech. Amongst men who were generally shorter and more slender (and, Jean-Luc added, better-looking), he held his own bizarre attraction, moving with the remnants of a true Thief's grace, rich voice permeating the room like incense.

"Anyone can see," Guillaume said, "dat dis boy, dis mutant, has already served well de purposes of an adversary, is dat right? He has divided the Guild, bewitched the heart of our leader, brought all of us together in a time of great strife an' difficulty… only t' rip us apart, an' right when we, de Guild, need each other de most, t' withstand de danger of de Assassins…"

Jean-Luc fought the desire to roll his eyes, and cursed the fact that Guild formality forbade him from pointing out that what Guillaume had just said was pure, unadulterated, bullshit. However, he could see that the idea had fertilized something in the other members, particularly the older ones, when Thierry du Mont-faucon, who had been retired when Jean-Luc had assumed leadership of the Guild, spoke up in a quavering voice.

"A young man with de devil's eyes!" he said, half-rising in his agitation before sinking back down into the plush depths of his seat. His rosary clacked and snapped like old joints popping. "How we know he ain't some demon-or Satan himself-come t' take us all away t' Hell?" A frisson of snickers ran through the room, but Thierry was not deterred. "Y'all saw what kinda slime an' filth nurtured him up in de Antiquary's halls, didn' ya? De boy was born an' raised as a perversion! A perversion 'gainst God an' nature an' man, Seigneur Patriarch. Is dis what you wan' t' welcome inta your bosom? A snake like him?"

"He is not a snake, he is a boy," Jean-Luc said coolly, "and the boy is ten years old."

"Dat's as may be," Thierry said, unheeding of his Patriarch's dangerous tone. "There'll be trouble comin' from dat one, mark my words! An' it gonna be Guild trouble, de kind you don' smooth away wit good words, Seigneur Patriarch. It gon' be de kind dat's only ended in blood-an' maybe it don't end, even den."

Jean-Luc flicked an appraising glance around the room. "I'm hearin' an awful lot about trouble an' blood an' all dat. Is dere a threat from de Assassins I should be apprised of? I'd like to t'ink our networks catch everythin' dat could be a threat to us, so maybe y'all have heard somet'in' I haven't."

A series of nervous, silent exchanges followed that, and finally Chretien spoke up. "We heard dat he attacked some Assassins a few weeks ago," the young man said reluctantly. "Beat them pretty damn good wit some sledgehammers, I t'ink it was… We worried dat dey're gon' come lookin' for de boy outa revenge. Dose Assassins were guardin' dat lil' wi-I mean, chil', Belladonna, an' you know de Assassins' Guild has been howlin' for revenge for what happened to her bodyguards. He put one a' dem in de hospital wit a broken jaw an' de other had a dislocated eye, so de Assassins have been goin' on 'bout 'eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth'… an' dey mean it *serious*. You *know* de kinda position we in, Jean-Luc. Havin' dat boy here only make it worse."

"De boy," Guillaume rumbled, "is an abomination. Ship him back to Fagan an' be rid of him."

"Even better, kill him. Pitch him to de Assassins," Richard muttered. "Dey be happy t' have him."

"Here I t'ought dat de T'ieve's Guild actually moved inta de twentieth century," Jean-Luc said, words almost choked by the contempt that welled in him. "If he tried ta beat the tar outta some Assassins, why the hell would de Assassins send him here as some kinda plant? An' Thierry, so help me, de boy is a *child*. He ain't some… some agent a' Satan!"

"Even the Antichrist starts life as child," Thierry said quietly, but not quietly enough.

"DAT IS ENOUGH!" Jean-Luc shouted. The words rolled through the stuffy room like thunder, and the other Guild members recoiled from their force. Chretien shrank back into the protective shadow of Guillaume, who for once seemed to have been deflated. Thierry cowered into the soft depths of his chair. Philippe Desjardins was the only man in the room who seemed to take the explosion with some equanimity, and even that was a little forced. The Rochambeaux, who had hitherto been mostly silent, now looked as if no torture on earth could get them to talk-and that was just the way Jean-Luc wanted them.

"You all're sayin' nothin' I ain't heard ten thousand times b'fore," Jean-Luc resumed in a quieter, yet equally forceful, tone. "An' dey're t'ings I heard durin' de war, when I was attached to de US Special Forces in Germany-hell, I didn' even have t' go t' Germany t' hear dem! I could hear dem right here on de streets. 'Goddamn stinkin' Jews, comin' in an' pushin' good Christian folk outta deir jobs,' 'hey, look, kill de black man! He touch a white woman, she defiled now.' An' from what I see, nothin's gotten much better since de forties, only dis time de issue is a boy wit red eyes-a boy who ain't done nothin' 'gainst dis Guild, who's only tried de best he can t' survive in de world *we* put him in. You hear all de anti-mutant protests on de news, you don' need me t' tell ya dat dis ain't nothin' more dan mob mentality. We're *t'ieves*, for God's sake, we *outside* all'a dat. We can't share de same fears all de good, upstandin' citizens do, 'cause we ain't good, upstandin' citizens. We ain't got no room for prejudice-it's hypocritical."

"How is it hypocritical?" Philippe asked softly. The question was not a challenge, but sounded sincere: Philippe really wanted to know.

"We be de shadow-walkers an' de outcasts, Philippe," Jean-Luc answered. "Dis boy, he be de same. He one of our own at heart, really. We-I-can't turn him away like dat."

"Fine!" Guillaume DesChamps interrupted, overriding one of the Rochambeaux. "Take him into de fold, spoil him until he can't see straight, we don' care. Jus' stipulate de boy ain't gon' inherit de LeBeau patriarchy, should either you or Henri die. It's simple as dat."

"No, it ain't," Jean-Luc said. "What I'm hearin' from you people is two diff'rent t'ings. From you, I'm hearin' nothin' but power an' de need for it. From Thierry an' de rest a' you… it ain't nothin' but de same ole, same ole fear dat's kept us t'ieves in de dark since we *were* t'ieves. Too stuck in our old books an' old t'ings t' see how de world's changed." He thought briefly about Henri and his cohorts, the bizarrely stylish, in-the-lights life they led. Well, Henri seemed to be sobering up a bit and not going out as much, for which Jean-Luc felt secretly relieved. "I ain't gon' be party to no power-play, DesChamps, an' I ain't gon' be party to sendin' dat boy back on de street, whether he's a mutant or not."

"We can call for a vote a' confidence, Jean-Luc," Guillaume said quickly, but not very confidently. "It only take a majority vote t' depose de Patriarch."

"You honestly t'ink you gon' get dat majority, Guillaume?" Jean-Luc asked. "You ain't even got enough for a quorum, let alone a majority vote from all de Guild. I see we missing the Chevaliers an deir friends, de DeSevigny. A few other faces, too, dat I don' see. Maybe dey have a diff'rent tune on dis dan you do. Dere ain't nothin' comin' outta dis meetin' dat ain't a Guild mandate handed down from de Patriarch. You gon' challenge my authority any further on dis matter?"

Guillaume opened his mouth to say something, but Philippe cut him off.

"Oh, for de love of de saints, Guillaume, leave off it already. He ain't changin' his mind, and all you're doin' is makin' him mad." The younger man drew a breath, the expression on his face one of complete shock at having gone up against one of the Guild's more venerable elders. Guillaume DesChamps had a similar expression on his face, no doubt for the same reason. Philippe continued: "You ain't never had a day's rest ever since you t'ought you might be able t' get hold a' de Guild patriarchy, Guil," he said, "an' I know you been plantin' all dis monster-talk in de heads of Thierry an' Richard an' all a' dem." He glanced at the two men so named. "It might not've been a lotta work, but you sure had a hand in it."

The older man looked as if he were about to explode from indignation. Thierry and Richard looked absolutely confused, as if waking up from a long and unpleasant dream. The rest of the members present, even wavery, inconstant Chretien, watched in suspended, determined silence.

"We ain't got enough representatives here for a quorum vote," Philippe said at last, "an' you ain't gonna get your majority from me. De Desjardins don' hold wit tossin' homeless kids back out on de street, or de kinda games you get off on playin'."

Guillaume cast a defeated, desperate look about the study, but none of the other men present would meet his eyes. Richard stared at the flagstones of the floor, along with Thierry and some of the other more superstitious members of the group, the ones who probably now felt manipulated into paranoia. The fear was still there, and Thierry would probably never accept the boy, but at least now he had reason to directly oppose Guillaume DesChamps, and put his own fears to the side for a time. The Rochambeaux men shared a quick glance, but remained silent.

"How do we know this ain't a power play of your own, LeBeau?" Guillaume tried in one last frantic reach. "Jus' sign de oath an' say de boy won't inherit!"

"I'm not signin' any'tin' tonight, Guillaume," Jean-Luc said patiently. "Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever." He paused, then: "An' as far as I'm concerned, dis meetin' is adjourned."

Feet shuffled on stonework and clothes rustled as the assembled thieves got to their feet, an intrusion into the uncomfortable silence. A few members spoke quietly to each other, but most filed quickly out, trailing behind the furious, imperious figure of Guillaume DesChamps. Philippe and Chretien remained behind, nervously glancing at themselves and Jean-Luc.

"You have somet'in' t' say, Philippe? Chretien?"

"Ah, uh, no, Seigneur," Chretien said hastily and strode out.

"Philippe, I *do* have some'tin' t' say to ya," Jean-Luc said to the remaining thief. "It's thank you. Thanks for stickin' up for me… an' for Remy."

"It wasn't a problem," Philippe answered. The young man, second youngest in the room behind Chretien, seemed to swell with a new maturity and courage. The boy deserved it, didn't he? He had faced down Guillaume DesChamps and won resoundingly. The Guild would talk about it for ages-most clans would get a silent, secret thrill at hearing of Guillaume's ignominious defeat. "It was all true," Philippe added. "He was just anglin' for somet'in' dat he couldn' have… An' t' see a kid stuck in de middle like dat didn' sit well wit' me at all, or wit de rest of de Guild."

Philippe's words bit at some deep, near-the-bone level of Jean-Luc's conscience. #Seein' de kid stuck in de middle… Remy's never gon' be outta it.# He thought back on the conversation, realized that he'd been completely successful in masking his true motives from both himself and his subordinates. #Dis is only de first step# he thought bleakly. #Dere's so much more t' do yet.#

Forcing a smile, he turned back to face Philippe.

"You got a lil' one a' your own, don' you?"

"Tomas, yes," Philippe said with a slow, affectionate smile. "I was t'inkin' a' him de entire time, t'inkin' about what I would do if I learned dat some people had turned him out on de streets t' fend for himself, or what I would do if *I* was put in de position where I had t' do de turnin' out. An' I decided I couldn' live wit myself, if I ever did dat… an' dat if anytin' happened to Tomas, I'd find de people responsible an' make dem suffer in ways an Assassin would find new an' interestin'."

"Give my regards to Tomas, an' t' Julie," Jean-Luc said as he led the way out of the room, locking it behind them. Out in the relative light of the hallway, he took a good look at Philippe's face, the unlined honesty of it underneath frowsy blond hair. He wondered obliquely when he, Jean-Luc, had stopped being young. Was it at a time like this? But Philippe had taken over his clan leadership at a young age, too… Surely, that would be enough to make a man age overnight. "You did well in dere, Philippe-de Desjardins have a good future for demselves."

Philippe, unexpectedly, flushed and looked away. "I don' wan' favors from dis…" he said nervously, back to his former awkwardness. "De Desjardins don' take favors."

"Didn' mean it like dat," Jean-Luc said. "You got de makings of a good leader, boy. Henri will need you someday."

"What 'bout Remy?" Philippe asked.

"All a' dat's a long way away," was the expansive answer. "For now, I just got a new son I want t' see… an' den get some sleep." Philippe seemed to have no reply to that, and in silence they walked up out of the deep-hidden library and into the mansion proper. In the same silence, Jean-Luc saw Philippe to his car, and silent still, watched the younger man get in and drive away.

The silence, though, did not last long as Henri's car zoomed down the road, moving well over the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit before it reached the turnoff to the LeBeau house's long dirt road-it took *that* turn at a perilous pace, almost going over on two wheels. That did not deter Henri, who gunned the engine and roared up the private road, gravel flying out behind the Boxter's tires. Over the crunch of rocks and the powerful, virile howling of the engine, Jean-Luc could hear a weak, if appreciative whoop and louder, more feminine admonitions to slow down.

Henri did not slow down, however, until the Boxter was up the driveway and almost through the shut garage door-only at that point did he slam the brakes on and turn the car off with a violent snap of his wrist, yanking the keys out of the ignition. Remy jumped out over the side of the door and tottered inside, brushing past Jean-Luc without a word of greeting. The boy's face looked decidedly green; Henri's looked enraged.

"Did y' have fun?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Define 'fun'," Henri said, glaring at him ferociously. "I made de mistake of lettin' him go to de restroom wit'out me… an' d' ya know what I found him doing fifteen minutes later?" He didn't wait for Jean-Luc to hazard a guess. "I found him shortchangin' de candy machine, dat's what." A weary hand passed across Henri's forehead, and for a moment, Jean-Luc thought his son looked unaccountably old. "He ate about five goddamned Snickers bars, on top of pizza… and popcorn… and that huge Coke he insisted on getting."

"He also vomited in the car on the way home," Suzette volunteered as she walked by them, happily clutching a plastic bag of new books. "All over the leather."

That looked as if it pained Henri much more than coming upon Remy bilking money out of the candy machines at the movie theater. Fury and hopelessness passed across Henri's face as the two men, the father and the son, regarded each other for a long moment. At last, Henri broke the impasse and stalked inside, muttering something about 'little monster' as he went.

 

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