Something New, Something Old

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Heel tapped lightly to an inaudible sound percolating in his head as he filed the tiniest groove in the tiniest piece imaginable.  It was a precise business, the Magus watching television at the same time from multiple screens. The storefront of the repair shop was cluttered with an exquisite array of pretty, yet unrecognizable things.  Parts. Wooden stocks.  Metal plates with intricate scrolling, even down to decorative trigger pulls.  Everything was in a particular order, and he knew where each item was. Glass cases lined the edges of the walls with more delicate items, stopping at the far corner where the Cajun was working at a large table with various overhead lights. It looked more like an eclectic antique shop than anything else, soft click of the front door bringing up eyes only briefly to glance over the flannel wearing customer.

 

He nodded slightly, going back to his work.  The Cajun didn’t pester people when they came in.  People nowadays didn’t want to be pestered, and he didn’t feel much like bothering them either.  If they wanted something, they would let him know.

 

*npc*  You sell any real guns?  Automatics, something with large capacity rounds?

 

“Where’s the fun in that?”  amused look was cast to the man before going back to his work, accent distinctive.  “How many shots you need to hit something?”

 

*npc*  Enough to kill it.

 

“Ammunition is expensive, but I can make it for you.  Write down what you need, I’ll have it ready tomorrow,”  he nodded toward the note pad near the register.  “Price list is on the counter.”

 

*npc*  You can really make all this?

 

He nodded slowly, reaching up to adjust a gooseneck light so he could get a better look at what he was filing.  Bored with the news, eyes blinked slowly, the television flickering through a few channels before settling on a show about antiques.

 

The man finished up at the counter and headed out, Carroll snapping together a gorgeous antique dueling pistol and setting it on the workbench.  Getting up to check what the man had wanted, eyes rolled slightly.  Never anything interesting, never anything challenging. Kill shit. That’s all anyone seemed interested in these days.  High capacity mags.  Make my new gun shoot better, faster, more accurate. Never… do you have a garter derringer or the pistol to complete my Gambler’s Box?  Now that would be something…

[Nora Sheeley]

The black cotton, no-frills camisole fit snugly under a worn leather jacket and rose slightly above the waist of a pair of jeans slung low on the camber of hips that topped off the confident gait of a woman who had a direct line on what she wanted and still paid enough attention to what surrounded her. She had watched man enter the gun store and was a few paces behind before she stopped outside its entrance to take a phone call. Mentally committing the important facts to memory, the dark-haired woman disconnected and stepped inside several minutes later.

 

She hadn’t caught any of the conversation between the two and had been systematic in her casual appearing visual sweep of the place as the door swung shut behind her. She watched flannel finish his business in silence at what appeared to be a countertop for the store’s dealings and gave him a dry, unwavering look as he passed by her. The look in his expression of disdain and chauvinistic grandeur had her just nearly brushing her jacket back to put a hand on a shapely, exposing her pistol.

 

Years of training and intuition spoke better of it so she just gave him a sardonic smile, dripping with friendly sarcasm which earned her a snort of disgust as he shoved passed her. As he bumped her shoulder, Nora jerked hers towards him, anticipating the movement and gave him a sound reply. Something about his vibe hadn’t charged the air right for her. Just watching the way the guy carried himself and the facial expression alone when he was walking towards the door she stood at had her body tensing.

 

*NPC* “Watch where you’re going, bitch,” he snapped.

 

Nora continued to smile pleasantly, flipped her long raven tresses flirtatiously with a heavy weight of danger sizzling almost tangible from her and directly squarely at him while subtly moving her jacket to reveal her gun. Her voice was a low whisper still thick with the sultry flavor only N’awlins could drawl out as she leaned forward and invaded his personal space. From her experience, it was a good flight or fight tactic and her measure of him was one she trusted. He was a big talker this one. Stand as far away as he could. Talk the talk, but couldn’t walk the walk. One of those people who didn’t know how to get their hands dirty.

 

“I could use this to shoot your eyes out so you had an excuse for such unbecoming behavior, but I’m a crazy enough bitch to wanna do you with my hands, cher. You just never know what other kinda powers lay underneath people nowadays, now do you?”

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Hazel barely slid upward as the man left, fingers sliding the order sheet across the glass counter toward him.  The guy wanted a lot. Would most likely bottom out the rest of his stock in the newer stuff. He had a lead on a new source, might have to tap it until his usual came through.  He hated running out of things, he was the guy that could get anything when everybody else were stuck scratching their heads.  He briefly stepped into the back warehouse storage to run his eyes over what he had, flicking eyes to the black and white surveillance video- changing the feed to the front of the shop. 

 

“I could use this to shoot your eyes out so you had an excuse for such unbecoming behavior, but I’m a crazy enough bitch to wanna do you with my hands, cher. You just never know what other kinda powers lay underneath people nowadays, now do you?”

 

The door was still open, listening to the conversation as he stopped by the door and poured himself a glass of something amber before returning to his work table with a smirk.  He could play the gentleman savior, but it sounded like she didn’t need his help and he probably would enjoy the show.  He slid on a latex glove, slowly going over the leather of the dueling pistol case to remove the sealer so he could re-dye it.  Not just a gun guy, but everything that cradled them too.

 

He watched her for a moment as he worked until she got a little closer. Wasn’t a fan of raising his voice more than he had to, it was impolite and just spoiled a civilized conversation.

 

“Seems a hurricane has blown in an angel that speaks like Brandywine,” he said quietly, laid-back, never one to spare the honey.  “Makes me a little homesick.”

 

Normally, he didn’t bother the customers.  Never in a hurry, they came here, they would ask when they needed something.  She seemed worth bothering, or keeping around for a bit so he could feel a slice of home in the air around him.  Whether or not she knew her guns, that remained to be seen.

[Nora Sheeley]

They stood there in charged silence, the air heavy as an old western standoff at high noon. Alpha female verses whatever the hell this man was or thought he was supposed to be in the wake of the Nevus. They were both stock still, until Nora made a mock jab at him and he flinched. Hadn't been expecting that, she reckoned, and that damn well decided it all. Snot-nosed little bastard, Nora thought, with a smirk as he narrowed his eyes at her for a minute and walked out.

 

There had to have been a little bit of shame and resentment there, thought the former CIA Agent. The cock could walk, baby - and he did. Nora's hips seemed to swing in a wider arc now as she made her way into the deep of the store, head higher in the air and eyes glimmering with amusement. Adrenaline surges and victory would do that, even to an already self-assured woman, and Nora was no exception. She wasn't made of stone after all - not all of the time anyway.

 

Hazel eyes, heavier on the verdant green hue flecked with a soft whiskey color moved towards the remaining man after she brushed over some of the wares he offered in the glass cabinets and slid over the glass on his table and the antique pistol case. However, in that moment, her gaze was set squarely on him. She'd seen him watching him, knew she wasn't coming up on him by surprise and would have done the same based on pure human nature alone.

 

Rough exterior like the very earth element she could manipulate, Nora softened around the eyes. Generous lips teased up into a genuine smile. She felt it too, though maybe more acutely with the female heart hidden beneath the necessity of a hard façade. She could smell it, taste the flavor and feel the wet heat heavy on her skin. Fragrant blossoms, lush yards like an intoxicating drug slowing down everything to a near halt until a fraction of cool air brought the night and its heady movement.

 

“Seems a hurricane has blown in an angel that speaks like Brandywine - makes me a little homesick.”

 

"Depends on your definition of an angel," Nora quipped with a razor sharp wit honed like the deadly point of an alligator tooth and just as unforgiving when it warranted. "What home is it you sick and longin' for, hm, cher?"

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Attention was split between the amusing match of wits, and the case he was painstakingly putting back together.  A devilish upturn on the corner of his lip was the only indication he was paying attention, and being thoroughly entertained in the process.  Of course, he could readily take care of the entire situation, much more inclined to let it play out.  Television was boring at the moment, and dying leather didn't take the greatest of concentration even though he looked as if he was focused intently.  A silent, deep chuckle caught in his chest when the guy vacated. Really?  The guy scared too easy, probably why he was buying enough ammunition to drop a troll.  Paranoid gun owners. Good for business.

 

Gloves were thrown away, donning a new pair to wipe the excess off and begin to polish.
 
"Depends on your definition of an angel, What home is it you sick and longin' for, hm, cher?"

 

Fingers picked up the glass of amber liquid filled to the brim with ice. He loved his sweet tea, a bit gauche for his upbringing but everyone had their vices.  Long drink taken, he continued his polishing.  He should have been concerned about his appearance, whisker shabby jeans, well traveled hiking boots and a cream colored polo. He wasn’t.  The Cajun may have grown up in a mansion, but he was a wanderer at heart.  Even wanderers though could be homesick.

 

“Tall, made of stone, stretching toward an azure sky and able to weather the storm with a grace that makes a heaven jealous,” lips smirked slightly.  “Old Metairie.  My marble Valkyries.”

 

Words were obscure, cryptic… but to a native they were part of a skyline that didn’t exist anymore.  Invincible at one time.  Nothing was invincible anymore, the smile forlorn for a moment as he polished in silence.  Sick of the channel, he blinked slowly and turned it, eyes flickering upward to watch the weather.  Anyone could come in with an accent nowadays, pretend to be from anywhere.  New Orleans was such a romantic thought, few though really knew it.

 

“What can I help you with?”

 

He never bothered anyone, but she seemed worth bothering... a thrum int he air something he didn't feel often from customers.

[Nora Sheeley]

The ice was the only thing that caught her attention as its soft song rang against the glass and spoke of suspected sweet tea instead of the favored Johnny Walker so very favored in her upbringing. He was genuine enough from the way he took a drink from the glass, nor was he bothered or hurried to do anything other than heed the flow. He knew how to slowly savor things, and it showed not just in that, but in the very profession and care he put into restoring with painstaking labor of love the items he displayed in his shop.

 

“Tall, made of stone, stretching toward an azure sky and able to weather the storm with a grace that makes a heaven jealous,” lips smirked slightly.  “Old Metairie.  My marble Valkyries.”

 

Words like prose in the thick of weapons that could kill and a pair of rag stocked individuals displaced in the labyrinth of a new world, and at that, what had formally been 'The Big Apple' and even referred to as 'Gotham' sometimes. It was easy to get lost in the 'new world.' Even easier to escape it, but that held a final solution for those who were either unfortunate, ignorant or too weak to stomach it and needed a quick route out to whatever heaven or hell they saw fit upon death. But, for Nora, what some saw as an impenetrable exterior of an assessing and objective individual who dealt largely in facts and information bled into what had been seen as a mere woman glimpsed every so often.

 

Nora Sheeley stilled and tilted her head, taking a fresh measure of the man.  She wasn't inclined to let it go and just jump right into what she wanted when she set out for his store. No, not when he was prickling sensibility. She should have met him smirk-for smirk, but he had thrown her for a moment and she stood frozen in time. It was out of character, but Nora was having a brief, though poignant moment as her brain chewed on what he said. Her own slow drawl was comfortable after she had absorbed it all with the free hip sans gun leaning with a saucy jut against the table's edge. She held up a halting hand after he flipped dismissively to weather on the television.

 

"Oh, no, no, darlin'. You just hold on a quick minute. You tellin' me you're from prestigious Old Metairie? Jefferson Parish Northwest of New Orleans 'proper'? I must warn you, sir. 'Angels' can sniff out a lie a million miles away, now," Nora added with a wide grin, amusement twinkling in her eyes.

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Hooded eyes had taken on the melancholy at the mere mention of his home.  Talk about it was rare, partially because people didn’t seem to know the difference between Southern locales and a hole in the head.  Finding someone that actually knew what he was talking about was just as rare, because of course if you went there once on a vacation and followed the tour guides around you knew everything there was to know about the old land.  Brow rose partially at the hip that invaded his table space, taking a moment to draw another drink of his tea and finally look at her fully.

  

"Oh, no, no, darlin'. You just hold on a quick minute. You tellin' me you're from prestigious Old Metairie? Jefferson Parish Northwest of New Orleans 'proper'? I must warn you, sir. 'Angels' can sniff out a lie a million miles away, now,"

 

The glass paused as he stared off into the comfortable dimness of his eclectic shop.  Those were fightin’ words, a lazy curl upward of his lips before taking another drink and setting it down.

 

“No,”  he chuckled softly and went back to his polishing, it was a nice memory.  “From nowhere.”  It was technically true, there was nothing left now.  “If you ain’t been there, then you ain’t been  nowhere..” the soft smirk on his features like a million secrets only he knew, the whiskey-raw voice hinted somewhat of a blues bone somewhere in his body, maybe a bit of Elvis too.  He was taking his time deciding whether or not commit, something about her said the real deal.  How long had it been? Never. He’d never met anyone from his home. Many that thought so, none that really had the blood that ran deep and it ended up in a ridiculously boring conversation about how many beads they had gotten at Mardi Gras.  Smirk lit his lips at the memories.  Beads were tourist fun, there was so much more underneath.

 

“…you never know what heaven means ‘till you been down to New Orleans,”  polishing stopped and he took off his gloves, tossing them into the trash and finishing off his tea before reaching inside the collar of his polo and pulling out the carved bone skull gris-gris that he never took off.  The case he was working on was opened up, small scissors clipping the hand stitching in the worn purple velvet.  “Old Metairie…?  You don’t smell Creole…” words were quiet as he focused on his work.  Not that he didn’t mind Creole, they were a bit urban for his tastes. Wrought iron and high rises.  Of course, he spent most of his childhood bouncing between that and the estate out of town proper, but the city was his home too. 

 

“Garden District,” the confession came finally, and spoke volumes about the elegantly shabby gun runner. Silver spoons, with mischief in his blood.  “..course was never there.  Fences and I didn’t mix well.”

[Nora Sheeley]

Nora's cogs fired at his reaction to seeing her hip casually slung against the edge of his precious work table. Just a mere flicker of her own bemused expression as he flowed with easy comfort towards that next sup of cup. Her visage mirrored his own when he volleyed back that little tap across the proverbial net of battle. It was easily taken in good humor with the accompanying chortle bubbling up from deep somewhere in the man's chest before it found a voice that sounded like it had been ripped raw by overuse, though now it oozed a gentle, soft tone which seemed to hint at years of living life full-on from the rough and tumble to the graced events of society.

 

Well, wasn't this just the most interesting little find.

 

"Angels know heaven well enough. But, 'does that make you awfully glad you were born a man'?"

 

Though Nora wasn't exactly a huge fan of the singer, it was a song about home and that made it mainstream in the 'city that care forgot.' It was akin to 'When the Saints Come Marchin' In' but not nearly as loved by her heart as Fats Domino and some of the less publicized musicians dotting the streets. The Elvis reference was interesting, but it made Nora just a hair suspicious, which keep her focus on learning more about him, and even offering a few pieces of information about herself, which was most often a rarity. She had learned from an early age that information was power and could be used as strength for both manipulation and a vulnerability better kept to herself and protected against intrusion from others - especially now. Treading lightly and carefully, she continued on track.

 

"Oh, so you more liken to one of them Area 65 folk, hm? I'm more Vieux Carre, myself." Nora quipped, leaning towards him a fraction to narrow her eyes thoughtfully at the gris gris he revealed. "Mm. I see you got the luck. Now, I don't reckon you exactly fit that Creole mark entirely 'cause you seem to have the personality more like Boogalee, to me, cher - but, I didn't venture much over the Canal Street neutral ground like my older brothers back then. I do know a little about the gris gris and some of those red brick dust tricks, but that stands to reason for a girl from the Quarter, don' it? You must have spend a good amount of time out those fences to acquire somethin' important like that."

 

Her words were unhurried and thoughtful like musings whispered to herself without the bustle of having to come to a conclusion until it came out of its own accord. She slipped comfortably into herself, but the inquisitive nature of her investigative inclinations unraveled with all that was apparent about it in a nutshell by the vehicle of simple, polite conversation with the strange man only just met. Nora's gaze led down to the antique box Josef continued his diligent work on and her eyes widened with interest and something else. The woman was impressed and even gave an unintentional nod of approval before ascending to seek his own again.

 

Arms crossed loosely under her breasts, the soft sound of fabric and leather rubbing one another as she pushed her hip from the tableside and stood straight again to her full 5'6" height. Back was straight and keen scrutiny sharp and unveiled. She was beginning to take him seriously, that much was evident. It was nice to hear words formed that way again, and she had enjoyed it from the start along with the witty banter. But, old Mr. Handsome-Rough- 'Round-the-Edges was looking like there was more to him that met the eye than just some good old boy from back home and Nora began to consider more than just the hallowed shadow of cheekbones hinting at an impression of some high society gentlemen even beneath a wardrobe appearance that may have been purposeful to lead one down an obvious path.

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

"Angels know heaven well enough. But, 'does that make you awfully glad you were born a man'?"

 

Smile reached his eyes as he focused on his work.

 

“Sometimes,”  again the cryptic answers, he was amused by her.  She was spicy, he liked to play with spicy.   He wasn’t sure why he divulged as much as he did, curious maybe.  Normally he just played the fool- from Georgia, from Alabama, Mississippi… nobody ever knew the difference when they noticed his easy drawl.  That couldn’t be pulled over on her; he’d figured that almost immediately.  “I miss my angels…”

 

"Oh, so you more liken to one of them Area 65 folk, hm? I'm more Vieux Carre, myself."

 

The first squint of sass rolled toward her from between slightly narrowed lashes, suckling his lips through his teeth to savor the last of the sweet before his attention moved back to his work.  He pulled in a long breath as he snipped delicately at the velvet stitching, allowing the gris-gris to roll slightly on the polo buttons as she studied it.

 

“What would Area 65 folk be like… in the Vieux Carre eyes?”

 

He listened carefully to the rest of her words, quite unsure of what to make of her.  The old-blood Cajun was fiercely protective of his reputation, and his high end upbringing.  He may have wished he was born into the thick of it instead of the cream on the top, but he would defend it with all the feisty gusto he had.  His blood was a part of that world, and probably some of the only left.

 

You must have spend a good amount of time out those fences to acquire somethin' important like that."

 

“Prone to trouble,”  he commented quietly, brows coming down as he started to peel back the threadbare purple velvet and pull away the disintegrating stuffing.  The stuffing was heavier than it should have been.  “…and a bit of a restless wanderer.”

 

Normally things smelled, old. Dusty, breaking down the age it had.  This did not.  Fingers pulled back from it a moment, thumbs dusting across his fingertips as he looked around his shop to locate something specific.  Gaze was cast back at the thing, a contemplative expression, fingers passing over it to focus invisible heat and warm up whatever had caught his attention. Normally not in front of a stranger, but unless she was “touched in the head” herself she wouldn’t even notice. Eyes squinted at the scent of something peppermint, the small snips he was using lifting the lump of stuffing to reveal a tiny velvet bag hidden in its midst.

 

It wasn’t a single dueling pistol, its mate lost- it had a purpose for someone.  Death or protection, revenge… justice… Positive or negative, this thing had been charged.  Lucky or unlucky, there was never anything in between and unfortunately a hazard of the job- collecting his past culture.

 

“…feet peu tan,”  the French Cajun curse was a vulgar one as the snips thunked to the table, hands sliding over his face, then intertwining his fingers behind his neck as he leaned back in the chair and took a rather nonchalant stance.  He was done with this thing for the day, eyes finally looking at her fully instead of his work.  He’d already memorized nearly everything about her.  She needed something, doubting very much she was here to watch him swear at an antique with a voodoo mind of its own.

[Nora Sheeley]

The man would have seemed to almost have an abnormal longing for heavenly bodies made of stone, if not for the familiarity of such characters accepted as just another native for Nora Sheeley. Easily deflected, she let a gentle chuckle roil from deep within her core, expelled through chest and throat until it overflowed from her lips. It was a soulful laugh as she watched him in his cool, calm unhurried way and continued work on his object of focus.

It was a loaded question. There was little doubt about it. A sly grin stretched across her face and her retort was as saucy as the day was long.

"That depends on who you would be askin'."

Nora kept it short and sweet, without tipping anymore of her hand. Maybe it seemed a little mysterious, to some even it might well be considered enigmatic. For her, it was just the introvert rising to that coveted wall of defense against probing that might lead to vulnerability. And by its judgment, she had already gotten too comfortable and risked oversharing. He was using more words, maybe, but he was deftly negotiating her with all the beloved vagueness of homefolk.

Instead, she was more than content to study the purple velvet he was peeling back on the case. Maybe he was a dueling pistol whisperer because the way he paused and appeared to intimately touch the fabric while squinting into the distance looked like a psychic. That was a flicker of note and nothing that roused her suspicion overly much as she looked at the bag. The investigator in Nora itched to take over, if not for his shift in demeanor. He was perplexed and it made her frown, brows furrowing. The broken curse did little to offend her as her lingering eyes were peeled away from the object back up to find the man's gaze dead set on her.

Nora searched his eyes, mirrored hazels unreadable and took her cue with a deep breath, unfolding her arms and withdrawing her phone from her pocket. With a quick swipe, she unlocked the touchscreen and found the pictures. A few more swipes and she found the first of three and selected it so it filled the glass. She thought about asking him if he was alright, but it seemed poor taste and better left alone. Extending the phone, she offered it to him as she reached across his table.

"Well, I'm sorry to interrupt your fine work, sir," she said, honey soaked voice smooth and soft.

"My name is Nora Sheeley - by the way, forgive me for not introducing myself properly - and I was just wonderin' if you seen anything like this come through your store here in the last few weeks. It's a Henry Style Derringer - as I'm sure you know well enough judging by what you got here. My brother Charles won one like it in a card game of Bourre up in Algiers one time," she added proudly without censoring herself with any thought as she had moments ago, and hers was the turn to reveal hints of melancholy before she continued.

"Now, the next photo enlarges it to show an unnatural lookin' pure black color where the coin-silver-thumb-piece should be. But, can you see where it appears thermal in some places - especially if you look real, real close at the hammer on top, you know? The bullets that it uses are modified from normal ones too, though I'm sure you must see some of that these days. Maybe you can at least help me with why that would be if you haven't seen it come through," Nora explained with factual articulation finding its way into the sweet song of southern drawl.

"Might help me figure out who or what I'm trying to hunt down."

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

"That depends on who you would be askin'."
 

That brought a chuckle from him then, not so much the reply as for the way it was delivered.  He loved the South, but there was something about the way a girl only from New Orleans could sound polite while telling you in no uncertain terms to fuck off that was unique to only the small stretch of land that should have died a hundred times over by now.  Surviving everything the world had thrown at it up until the Nevus rocked the entire planet was a badge that could be worn until the end of time.

 

He went back to his work for a moment, full intending to introduce himself in due time.  Good things came to those who had the patience.  The little box of mystery finally revealed exactly why the owner agreed on the restoration job at his price, and why the Cajun had been sought out for it, though he definitely would have a long talk about making assumptions of people… it was just the owner’s luck that his stereotypes, or insider information about the shop most likely, had been right. Josef would just have to do some inquiring about who was telling potential clients that the gun ”runner” could also “disarm” cursed juju.  He had the things he needed in a case about five feet from him, but didn’t seem polite to get up and start burning things in front of a potential customer, especially one who knew what he was probably up to.  A voodoo slinging gun guy was not exactly the reputation that paid his bills, it was the ‘shoot as many times as you needed to kill it’ type that kept his lights on.

"Well, I'm sorry to interrupt your fine work, sir,"

 

“Never a bother,”  he smiled.  “Josef Carroll Boudreaux IV,”  he smirked then, stretching his arms above his head to work out the tension of sitting hunched over the little cursed box of mystery for several hours.  “Area 65 and their… need to name every son the same.  Rather shows a lack of creativity I suppose.  Carroll is fine, you call me Josef you better be buying dinner.”

 

Smile was easy.  He nodded at her introduction, ears perking at the description and absorbing the ease at which the conversation pitched. It was always a dance with a zirondelle, and that was the fun of it.  He got up out of his chair and stood next to her, the Cajun’s skin always running a bit hot from the touch of crazy he’d inherited- making it a point to not stand incredibly close as he looked over the pictures.  People tended to comment he felt like a blast furnace in the cooler months.

"Now, the next photo enlarges it to show an unnatural lookin' pure black color where the coin-silver-thumb-piece should be. But, can you see where it appears thermal in some places - especially if you look real, real close at the hammer on top, you know? The bullets that it uses are modified from normal ones too, though I'm sure you must see some of that these days. Maybe you can at least help me with why that would be if you haven't seen it come through,"

 

His brows lowered slightly, studying the photo, “Can you hold it a little closer?”

 

He didn’t explain why, the request sounding a bit strange, only he really knew he tended to fry electronics- especially plastic when he touched it.  Phone screens also played havoc with his eyesight.

"Might help me figure out who or what I'm trying to hunt down."

 

He’d seen all sorts of mods with the old guns. Desperate people couldn’t find normal ones when the scavengers blasted through everything, so antiques were often jacked up from those that didn’t understand you couldn’t put all bullets in all guns.

 

“You're looking for someone not familiar with firearms, or someone not familiar with magic trying to use it.  Haven’t seen it, yet.  Usually all things old come through here eventually unless it has a different kind of value,”  he didn’t elaborate on what the ‘different kind of value’ it was.  Wrist absently twisted to rearrange the eclectic collection of black corded charms on it that tended to tangle every now and then.  Stepping aside to lift the glass side door down on one of his cases, he reached in and pulled out a larger, but similar style gun.  It looked okay, until he turned the hammer toward her.   Something had blown a hole clear through the back of the gun, he set it carefully on the table, it was good only for parts.  “This was my first instinct.  Damaged gun, wrong powder, etc.  List goes on and on with an antique firearm.  Could be a powder burn, a barrel breach.  Unless I can look at it, there’re a lot of possibilities.  A lot of heat, that’s for sure.  There are… other possibilities, but… not sure I trust you yet.”

 

Hands slid nonchalantly into his jean pockets, eyes moving to watch the television for a long moment before the four different screens in the room turned off in succession as he looked back at her and smiled neatly.  A neat party trick, but a hint of something deeper he wasn’t willing to discuss unless she could keep her mouth shut.  The gun dealer was rumored to be a bit on the ‘hoodoo’ side in more ways than one, but he wanted to keep it just a rumor.  Order dropout, and all... and Order being the power mongering dicks they were.

[Nora Sheeley]

“Never a bother,”  he smiled.  “Josef Carroll Boudreaux IV,”  he smirked then, stretching his arms above his head to work out the tension of sitting hunched over the little cursed box of mystery for several hours.  “Area 65 and their… need to name every son the same.  Rather shows a lack of creativity I suppose.  Carroll is fine, you call me Josef you better be buying dinner.”

 

 

Nora’s surprised, unimpressed little snort depleted into an unobtrusive chuckle when she heard his name and the explanation he offered. She shook her head a little with the kind of accepting disbelief that showed a woman who had lived a great deal in her life and had learned to roll with the punches early.  Just what the hell was Mr. Josef Carroll Boudreaux IV – of all the infamous sons of ‘The Big Easy’ doing here in New York City - and more so, what were the odds of whatever it was that was unfolding just at that moment between the two transplanted citizens?  In the end, she had tossed up a white flag and shook her head with a wicked smirk.

 

His brows lowered slightly, studying the photo, “Can you hold it a little closer?”

 

 

The subconscious part of Nora had already leaned towards Carroll a fraction when he stood next to her. Another minute thoughtless movement shifted into the pull of warmth when he needed to see the screen better, soaking in his heat against the chill of fall that still tried to crack the elemental stone manifestation that was presently dormant beneath the veneer of human shell.  She tested the larger and smaller sizes with her fingertips until they found a good middle ground for him to see what he needed through the silent intuition that only took perception and common sense as a lucid skill set.

 

“You're looking for someone not familiar with firearms, or someone not familiar with magic trying to use it.  Haven’t seen it, yet.  Usually all things old come through here eventually unless it has a different kind of value. This was my first instinct.  Damaged gun, wrong powder, etc.  List goes on and on with an antique firearm.  Could be a powder burn, a barrel breach.  Unless I can look at it, there’re a lot of possibilities.  A lot of heat, that’s for sure.  There are… other possibilities, but… not sure I trust you yet.”

 

 

After he moved to the glass, Nora straightened with a confused expression flitting across her face as she recalled to mind her own personal space. She looked at the gun he held and then turned away from him to bend forward and study it better when he set it on the table after slipping the phone back into her pocket. Nora didn’t touch it, but had her nose so close that she was nearly on top of it as she bent her knees even further shifting her back towards him to tilt her head and get the angle down the barrel, though she was focused more on the hole in it. She highly doubted it was someone unfamiliar with firearms. The latter, however, was heavy on her list of suspicions.

 

Squinting once more at it, Nora stood up again and sighed. That wasn’t a whole helluva lot  to go on and she knew it - in fact it was pretty easily assumed already in her own contemplations. She also knew a proverbial carrot dangling before her when she saw it. She heard the TVs go off, but didn’t turn, still gazing at the gun as if willing it to give her a better clue. But, for that, she’d have to rely on Mr. Boudreaux himself. There would be no dickering with the gun, that was certain - those in this world, it wasn't beyond her scope of reason any longer.

 

She finally swung her gaze to meet his and see that confident smile stretching across his face. He looked cocky, but more like a playful imp or a boy next door who could pull it off without inciting the wrath of a headstrong, 'modern' woman. Turning to fully face him, she rested her hands easy on her hips and nodded. Her feline shaped eyes relaxed considerably, but still held a firm determination. Tempered, Nora’s full lips softened from the thin, hard tense line of their former pensiveness and her facial features became the epitome of elegance on overall change in expression alone, signaling her evocative sentiment as sincere to ‘play ball’ with him on this potential exchange.

 

“We know trust ain’t nuthin’ but earned over time, cher, which I very sadly happen to be short on just now. Otherwise, know I’d be happy to prove it to ya. Just what you lookin’ for as a sign of good faith from me, here, now, Carroll?”

 

She may have had a lot of questions for Mr. Carroll Boudreaux, but it certainly seemed poor timing to prod the man when she wanted his help. In addition, she knew she may have come off as a little abrupt a moment ago when she got dodgy with him which may not inspire this trust he smartly remarked upon, so Nora could only offer negotiation and damage control, if it was necessity. Either way, Nora needed what she needed and the direction was taken with encouragement. That little parlor trick capped off the small clues that were making their way to the forefront of her mind as she took him in with the entire scope of surmising what was adding up and what was not, thus far.

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Lips pursed slightly at her laugh when he introduced himself, having a good feeling the jig was up where he was concerned.  There was no doubt in his mind she was who she said she was… the question was whether she was thinking he was a hustler of some kind.  Anyone could say they were anyone at this juncture in time.  She knew his name, he could see in on her face.  He’d rather enjoyed being a nobody even before the end of the world on his great escape to nowhere, not that he was interested in losing who he was- but it was nice to be where the world didn’t treat him like a prized racing stud waiting to see how much more money he could bag for the family.  His family had never made him feel that way, it was the rest of the Big Easy high life that chased his coattails like the money grubbers they were.

 

Wry smile had turned to a slightly hurt annoyance, ready with comment of his own.

 

He kept the quip to himself, she was a customer.   Eyes narrowed in and out as she played with the size of the picture.  He really needed it in his hands to tell her more.  He couldn’t think for the life of him what would cause that kind of mark without scorching the wood or completely blowing out the barrel.  The lack of damage to the wood was what kept heading him off at the pass.  As she leaned over to inspect the thing, his arms crossed lightly, thumbs tapping on his biceps, the smirk on his lips truly screaming red-blooded male as he cast his glance over his shoulder and elsewhere for a moment; then stepped up next to her. 

 

“The cracking in the wood is what means it’s a natural break.  Integrity of the metal is breached and it just becomes basically a pipe bomb.  Splinters anything and everything around it to release the pressure.  Wood is cracked, finish is scorched.  Your gun is pristine.  I could guess maybe the metal was damaged and it was put on a different stock, but why would someone do that?  It was damaged intact, something hot enough to sear metal but not damage the finish. There’s only one thing that can do that,”  he wiggled his fingers suggestively in a mock “abracadabra”. In fact, he’d done it himself to remove things from metal.

 

He watched her a moment, head tilted slightly to study her focused profile as his thumbs tapped again on the sensitive skin of his arms.  Reaching down to touch it with his fingertip, he pushed it toward her if she wanted to pick it up, not liking the seemingly defeated sigh.  Unhappy customers weren’t usually the result of his work.  He wanted to tell her more, he just didn’t want the Order kicking down his door.  He rather liked his door intact, and his life.

 

“We know trust ain’t nuthin’ but earned over time, cher, which I very sadly happen to be short on just now. Otherwise, know I’d be happy to prove it to ya. Just what you lookin’ for as a sign of good faith from me, here, now, Carroll?”

 

Reasons escaping him at the moment, he felt he’d had this conversation before… except the shoe on the other foot.  The distance between him and home was forever- the simple sound of someone filling his space with words and cadence from his past triggering more than just memories was expected.  This inkling was not the same.  It hung in the air oddly and he couldn’t pull it in.  A scent was teasing at him, attempting to release a trigger long gone.

 

It was his turn to sigh.  He didn’t like unhappy customers.

 

Against his normally staunch self-preservation, an “escaped convict” for lack of a better label… eyes searched his workbench for an “antique” junk pistol he had been pulling parts from for test drills.  Holding it proper, thumb directly on the plate, he took four steps away from her and aimed it at the back wall.  Brows furled, the wave of heat echoing outward from him like a roll of thick southern summer air.  Thumb sizzled on the metal, arc of ember light fizzing around his skin and dying away to leave the distinct scent of scorched plating.  Televisions flickered a moment then went dark again.

 

“I think I just turned off your phone, sorry about that… can’t control the fallout,”  words were quiet, hearing a car alarm somewhere outside his shop go off.  Finger remained in the trigger guard, twirling it around so she could inspect it.  Plate was black, an iridescent echo outward to the surrounding metal.  “Give it a second, still hot.”

 

He blew on it softly, then handed it to her.

 

“I could have shot a bullet without pulling the trigger if it was loaded right, but who the hell would do that?  Most likely not real bullets.  I know others that can use what fuels their power as ammunition- which is probably what this is.  You’re looking for a mage.  One of three kinds.  Good guys, really evil guys, or guys that will blow themselves up and you with them doing this kind of thing,”  he put the breached gun back in the case.  “Your pistol is most likely a focus object for someone’s mojo.  Odds are not in your favor here.  My advice is let it lie.  You walk into Arma, they’ll want it.  You call down the Order, they’ll kill you for the information.  A rogue mage will just blow you up.  Be a shame to see you dead.  Then I’d be all by myself.”

 

He picked up his glass and moved to refill it.

 

“I tell you any more I might lose my membership in the superfriends club,” smirk was playful, giving no indication to which team he was on.  Taking a long drink, he set it down, blink profound.  Words had slipped from his lips before his last statement that were familiar.  He looked at her oddly, dismissing the thought. “Anything else you need?"

[Nora Sheeley]

Nora had felt him sure enough with that heat that seemed to pulse from his very form when he stepped up next to her. The trained operative kicked in and she put on her mask. She'd showed a flicker of surprise once when they'd been looking at her phone together and she wasn't about to look like a dumbass doe in the headlights again in front of him if she could help it. Besides, the ease in which she ached to let out was tap dancing on a dangerous fissure in a stony shell that was as evident as her element when she shifted. Something that may well have spoken to her on some primitive level before the major event flipped everything on its head. Either way, she paid attention, listening one of her best qualities and honed in on what made her good at her job - survival, at the very least.

 

“The cracking in the wood is what means it’s a natural break. Integrity of the metal is breached and it just becomes basically a pipe bomb. Splinters anything and everything around it to release the pressure. Wood is cracked, finish is scorched. Your gun is pristine. I could guess maybe the metal was damaged and it was put on a different stock, but why would someone do that? It was damaged intact, something hot enough to sear metal but not damage the finish. There’s only one thing that can do that."

 

Now they were getting somewhere. He made her smile when he did his little 'abracadabra' move. And he smelled good. God damn, Josef smelled good. Maybe it was that last brush with heat that had it wafting at her like essential oil in a burner. But, it was gun oil and polish enveloped by his own stamp seeping from the pores. Somewhere the scent of leather worked its way in there too. Reminded her way, way too much of the past from the time she was a young girl to her stint in the military and even sometimes the CIA. Funny how certain scents and smells could put cracks in even the most solid concrete walls.

 

Face brightened as he pushed it towards her. She wasn't one to put her hands directly on things anymore without gloves first. Most of the time it helped, but she was certain that thin layers wouldn't always guard her against an onslaught of magic. It was everywhere, flooding the world in all sorts of ways and one of the highest growing revelation of demographic she was noticing lately. The mages were here to stay, better to make nice with that sort. She inspected it carefully and with deliberate, slow precision turning it at every angle and viewing it both up close and holding it at arms length.

 

She hadn't meant to come of sharply, if that is how she were perceived and she hadn't liked what she thought was a mildly wounded look on his face. Nora was a trained expert in extracting information without someone being all the wiser. She could be smooth, fluid and direct when the situation called for it and trusted instinct always had her getting a great read on people with minimal risk of it backfiring. In short, she was able to speak their language quickly and efficiently while making them feel good about offering her everything she wanted and more. Well, nine times out of ten, at least, but who was counting?

 

If she were a good Southern lady of breeding she would have protested him, gentle or genuine, before he demonstrated his power. But, she didn't. There were no polite dismissal given based on unworthy rub of any possible offending words that damaged feelings or stirred sentiment better left buried. Nora felt as if she may have forced him into a corner where men - hell, herself as a headstrong woman, at times - felt pinned in the corner had to come out swinging with the prize to regain some sagacity of restoration to self. Of course, she admitted she could be way off and projecting her own liabilities. Weak points were something she was realistic about and never hid from herself. She assessed them and figured out a way through them when necessary. How else would she be among the survivors?

 

“Shit!” Nora exclaimed in a loud whisper without a second thought or apology when the heat hit the fan and she saw his thumb sizzling. Eyes wide and no sense of propriety, Nora stood frozen in place staring at him for a few beats marveling at the low color of flame like a halo fading around his skin. The heavenly scent of guns and man was crushed by scorched plating, calling Nora back to sensibility. Her eyes cut from Carroll to the televisions before he spoke and heard the alarm on her Nissan GT briefly go off. Sensing movement from the corner of her eye, she turned back to him, feeling like everything was moving in slow motion as he offered her the gun for inspection after he blew on it to cool its searing heat.

 

"I could have shot a bullet without pulling the trigger if it was loaded right, but who the hell would do that? Most likely not real bullets. I know others that can use what fuels their power as ammunition- which is probably what this is. You’re looking for a mage. One of three kinds. Good guys, really evil guys, or guys that will blow themselves up and you with them doing this kind of thing,” he put the breached gun back in the case. “Your pistol is most likely a focus object for someone’s mojo. Odds are not in your favor here. My advice is let it lie. You walk into Arma, they’ll want it. You call down the Order, they’ll kill you for the information. A rogue mage will just blow you up. Be a shame to see you dead. Then I’d be all by myself.”

 

Nora studied it and handed it back to him as he explained. She knew he had shared something, maybe under some reluctance for her benefit or that of that ingrained 'old gentlemen of the south' culture. She knew it, grew up in it, but didn't always see its benefit. All she could do was suspect whatever motive made him give her a show of good faith instead of her having to put anything out there for him. She was grateful for it and the rest of his advice revealed more about him than it may have about her target. His smirk and refill were hinting back to normalcy and she flowed with it, following his lead without a response. He was a lot of layers to sort out and made her feel a little off her normal ice cold no-nonsense game.

 

“I tell you any more I might lose my membership in the superfriends club,” smirk was playful, giving no indication to which team he was on. Taking a long drink, he set it down, blink profound. Words had slipped from his lips before his last statement that were familiar. He looked at her oddly, dismissing the thought. “Anything else you need?"

 

Something charged the air. Maybe the residual magic from his exhibition. Nora didn't know and hadn't experienced it before so had no benchmark to compare. She wasn't even considering any educated guess just then, only pulled into the peculiar expression on his face. She shouldn't press or be more intrusive than she already had been with him, but she was concerned. She stepped over to him and reached up on human instinct alone, slender fingertips hovering near his bicep, unsure if touching him would burn her as she hesitated.

 

Voice lowered to just barely a whisper.

 

“Besides a good beignet or real spicy homestyle jambalaya making my mouth water you mean? Yeah - I'd like a few more things other than that too. But, I've asked a lot already, cher… You okay after tha - ?”

 

Words bled into silence, cut off by the sound of a shot firing outside and shattering a window. Nora's brows furrowed and her face went still and cold as marble, blank and business-like in one fell swoop. She turned from Carroll wordlessly and withdrew the P290 from the holster at her hip which had been hidden under her jacket. She stayed still and gave Carroll a look that said, 'you better hide or make your ass useful' before she turned and moved with a steady gait towards the front door, but not directly as she flanked on the right so she would be out of sight as she wound her way through everything. She meant to position herself strategically behind the door until opportunity presented itself. Both hands cradling the Sig Sauger firmly, Nora uttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone.

 

"Bet it's that little fucker from - "

 

Words were again stolen and swallowed by the sound of a poorly aimed bullet hurtling through the door of Hammer's Antique Firearms and Gun Repair.

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Patience was a virtue with him. He could be eternally patient.  Dealing with his parents, the fussy spells of his mother to make him look like the perfect son in the perfect suit with the perfect hair had etched into his bones.  Customers liked patience, it often involved a touch of stealth and persuasion to convince someone to pay the prices he charged for restoration work and even the antique firearms themselves. As she studied the thing like it would whisper kind secrets, he knew he had the information she needed.  He knew exactly why he chose so quickly to let it slip. She was barking up the wrong trees. Mages were not nice, not even the ones that claimed their righteousness.  Anyone could do that, and anyone was just a breath away from being the bad guy.

“Shit!”

 

Left brow quirked slightly, finishing the deed as quickly as possible and giving her advice that she may or may not have appreciated.  He knew first-hand the dangers of flushing in with the wrong people. There was a war on, and he highly doubted either side much cared who they hurt. Maybe they did, but the fallout splattered all over the news and papers didn’t make him much confident that it was the case.  He took the gun back, hoping at least she take him up on his guidance.

 

Eyes slid smoothly to her fingers that refrained from touching his skin, the same quirk to his eyebrow bringing an amused upward curl of lips.  HE wouldn’t burn her, not his skin anyway.  It was sensitive to touch though, the nearest he could figure was because whatever mojo he slung had to pass through him to get out.

“Besides a good beignet or real spicy homestyle jambalaya making my mouth water you mean? Yeah - I'd like a few more things other than that too. But, I've asked a lot already, cher… You okay after tha - ?”

Attention at the gunshot was immediate, a blasé, partially incredulous look on his features as she gave him the commanding look. Seriously?  Shooting at a gun shop?  Aw hells no… Lips moved quietly in a bastardized french that was only native to one place in the world, an odd hum in the air that could bristle the hair on the back of someone’s neck, reaching under the front counter to pull a rather sleek rifle a-la a bar owner’s baseball bat, except… this rifle was exquisitely clean and engraved with the family’s name.  Once above the fireplace in the main hall, it had taken him years to find it after the world went to hell.  It was now home, and back in the hands that had made a living from its inspiration.

 

"Bet it's that little fucker from - "

 

The buildup suddenly released in a breath stealing pulse, furling outward like rolling smoke as he strode toward the front door, the seductive sound of a bolt action rifle loading meaning business.  It was disorienting at first, always… the world opening up to him like a Doppler radar except everything was in echoing grays and whites.   A moving x-ray without color, blink preceding a snapped jerk of his arm away from the path of a bullet that crackled through the door. He had to get better at seeing those, the spiraled spin caught only seconds before it would have ripped through his arm.

 

The shit was moving position, his eyes seemingly staring at a closed door, following something on the other side.  Stock cradled against his arm, he opened the door and snapped up the rifle, aimed, following a moving target before taking one shot… a squealed collapse onto the pavement signaling he hadn’t killed anyone, just put a through and through into somebody’s calf.  It was a painful shot, somebody blubbering on the pavement, the clatter of a gun probably signaling he was now either clutching his calf or trying to crawl away.

 

Sigh oozed from his lips, lashes fluttering to bring the dilated pupils back to pinpoints before they relaxed to normal. Rifle rested over his shoulder.

 

“After you, Miss Nora,” he gestured in a gentlemanly fashion out the door to go inspect his target practice.

[Nora Sheeley]

Trust was still a slippery slope and information and misinformation ran rampant, as a one constant in life whether before or after things went haywire. She hadn’t mean to ignore, nor dismiss his advice. Nora was simply schooled in holding her tongue when there was information to be dissected. And this was something she wanted to tear apart by layers at a leisurely pace. She was aware of what he had said, in general. It was perhaps just common courtesy he offered by way of informative warning. Or, maybe she had a free pass to it given their shared roots, of sorts. Either way, she was chewing on his motives as much as she was whether he had his own hidden agenda, given what she had just witnessed from the man himself. Though, that still had not stopped her from reaching out to him.

 

Had she had the time to linger on his reaction to the gunshot, Nora would have found genuine humor in his reaction. The snap of his power was like a switch thrown and made every hair on her body stand on-end, gooseflesh prickling her skin as she continued movement in a forward and efficient motion; a dangerous feline on the hunt in the game of predator and prey. Between the charge in the air and the echoing aria of heady intoxication that could only come from the sound of a bolt action.

 

Even Nora had to admit that even in that moment, in spite of how fast everything was unfolding, it resonated with her how much better his gun sounded being cocked and ready then her own modern pistol. She was woman enough to admit a mild bought of jealousy at that, let alone the old ‘Matrix’ movie move he seemed to have just pulled when she glanced at him with eyes warring between a casual nature accustomed to such exhibitions and still openly impressed. You would ‘wow’ Miss Sheeley once, but rarely twice in one fell swoop.

 

He acted like a bold cowboy straight out of the Old Wild West, and she nearly shot him herself, if not for recollection that he had that badass swagger to his gunslinger hips and did not only know his way around a gun and could aim to beat the devil, but those searing powers that could nail someone to the wall with little effort, as she had witnessed. Nora couldn’t help feeling a little put out, but it had been worth it. The man had fired her pistons with a few of her favorite things in the thick of it and she allowed herself to indulge the moment for a few beats before she stopped next to him, eyeing his handiwork in full.

“After you, Miss Nora.”

 

Her chest was heaving in a little pant and her cheeks may have even been a little flushed as she kept her gun trained on the little man with the nearly-big-balls. It was a nice shot – more than, but she wasn’t in the mood to hand out any compliments just yet. Maybe Nora came off as a tough, cold-hearted bitch. Some folks found that rather enigmatic when they looked close and found simplicity in the obvious. Licking lips, she gave a slow nod; almost reluctant as she turned her head over her shoulder to Carroll. The woman ruled the objective for a moment as she took a long glance that licked him from bottom to top before it settled in on his eyes and held them for a second. She may have looked utterly livid if not for the sparkle glistening in her eyes when she canted her head up to look at him squarely. With a grunt, she spoke in a raw whisper.

 

“Shameful, cher. Now you just showin’ off impressin’ a poor, simple girl from the Quarter…gettin’ a body all worked up with that gun of yours and that fancy shootin’. Gonna add lessons in that to my ‘want’ list.”

 

Pursing her lips as if disapprovingly waving some semblance of a white flag, Nora turned away after response and sauntered with a steely confidence towards the downed man. Licking her teeth, she moved to kick the gun further from his grasp as he made a grab for her ankle. He swung slow and wide, giving Nora a chance to pivot and slam her black, booted foot onto his wrist. With a ‘tsk’ she shook her head and gazed down at him as new grunts and screams fused together. He was making too much noise. Nora lifted her head and looked at Carroll and then around the perimeter. All the hot flirtation was gone from her voice as she shifted gears with flawless effort.

 

“We might should find somewhere quiet for this child and soothe him nice and sweet’. If you wanna wash your hands of it, it would be my pleasure to take him to one of my favorite, cozy little spots where we can get to know each other reeeeeeal good.”

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Nothing spurred him into action like an attack on his own.  Even if he’d thought for a second the asshole that was shooting at his place was after Miss Nora, his actions wouldn’t have been any different.  They were shooting at HIS place. Sensitive maybe, a bit late in realizing how much he wanted to protect his home even if he didn’t agree with the lifestyle.  Nowadays, nobody stepped into his world and mucked it up, not while he was still breathing.  Normally mischievous eyes had iced over even as he smiled at her, blinking away the heaviness of power he rarely used.  He had to be more careful, the sweet drawl of someone from the homeland had been so tempting… maybe it was more of a need to warn her about what he had learned the hard way. Either way, he needed to keep it under wraps. Safety had made him too comfortable.

 

Rifle quietly over his shoulder, lips and brow quirked with an amused impish smirk at her expression. Now who was playing who?  Defending his turf, perhaps a lady in the process that he pretty much had figured didn’t need defending.

 

“Shameful, cher. Now you just showin’ off impressin’ a poor, simple girl from the Quarter…gettin’ a body all worked up with that gun of yours and that fancy shootin’. Gonna add lessons in that to my ‘want’ list.”

 

“Should see me with a revolver,”  now, he was teasing. Maybe.  He could shoot and teach even the best of them, but the solid sound of making an antique firearm do its duty he found more often than not catching more than just a casual attention.  Smokey hazel held hers for a moment, then focused past her on his “kill” as she approached the man.

 

Reloaded and snapped again onto his shoulder as he approached as her “back-up”, attention zeroed in on the face.  He knew it... the creep of memory from a deep place long gone shivering low in his gut.  Alligators, swamps, unfriendly of unfriendlies… and a young rich kid that got the shit beat out of him in the middle of it.  Point was released, reaching to pick up the gun and render it no longer a threat, pretty sure he was seeing a ghost… or the ghost hadn’t recognized him yet.  It bristled his hackles, bringing back fear he didn't realize still existed.  He was powerful, trained, but still afraid of his childhood terrors- the instinctual reaction to bring up complete defenses squelched.

 

“We might should find somewhere quiet for this child and soothe him nice and sweet’. If you wanna wash your hands of it, it would be my pleasure to take him to one of my favorite, cozy little spots where we can get to know each other reeeeeeal good.”

 

“Inside,”  tone was curt, no longer the warm and playful southerner- timbre of the pure elite expecting to be obeyed without question, still trying to kabash childhood fear.  Flash of eyes were heated, memories invoking sheer warmth from his skin he wasn’t going to explain.  “Back room.” 

 

He reached down and grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him from pinned booted squash on his wrist and half dragging him toward his shop.  The door behind the counter was opened with a few codes on a keypad, the guy thrown onto a concrete floor in a remarkably different surrounding than the front of the store.  It was sterile, filled with metal racks of parts; tools of all kinds that looked more like torture devices than repair service.  Rifle was disarmed and carefully placed on the workbench, his gun pulled from the back of his waistband and rendered active again.

 

"Talk, now... or I will shoot you in the face," words articulate, the Cajun was fierce... still trying to swallow fear, waiting for the story that would tie this all together.  It simply couldn't be.

[Nora Sheeley]

While Carroll embodied everything he had tried to warn Nora off of earlier, she reserved her own judgment kept tightly within her own confidence on the entire matter. It was a discussion worth having with the man at some other time, perhaps, if fate gave its favor. That was, assuming they made it out of there in one piece. He was saturated and nearly dripping with power.  Exactly what he told her not to mess with during her investigation.

 

Nora knew her way around handling herself - his internal musings had nailed that one on the head - but hell, even she got off on a little masculine show of testosterone once in a while. What was even better icing on the 'King Cake' was how he was able to accommodate her own sense of sarcastic, dry humor that knew one direct path to their mark. They didn't make them like that anymore. That was damn sure.

 

And his ice cold temper was still bearing down like a heat-seeking missile. Nora recognized the look as easily as if she were looking in the mirror. It was when the frigid, calculated temperature came down that things were about to get down to business. She'd done it herself in a glimmer of sadistic pleasure and taken her time releasing that wrist from beneath her boot, enjoying a little tease of payback from the wailing perpetrator as Carroll yanked.

 

Nora let him take the lead after slipping the assailant's weapon into the back of her jeans, and gave astute attention to sweeping the scene with her eyes, searching for things that were 'too normal.' Her gun still at ready, prepared for anything though showing where her eyes were looking with every aim. That was one of the first things they had learned in training and it had been a lesson learned well. Clear, secure and never underestimate.

 

In the field, one transitioned into positions that saved lives and she wasn't a woman who needed to have a pissing contest with one god damn solitary soul. She saw a job that needed doing and got it done, filling in the gaps wherever needed. Even in that mode, Nora still couldn't hide the glowering expression when she cut back to the man after seeing the front window of her Black Nissan GT shattered as they walked back into the store.

 

Nora followed, taking in the details like a machine, gauging exits along with pros and cons and what might be used as a weapon by the enemy. What would Nora Sheeley do in his shoes? That was always the question she asked herself with immediacy. She was rarely one to take any subject lightly or allow for anything obvious to happen under her watchful eye. The devil was in the details, after all. The simple, small things that appeared unimportant in the right hands could perform extraordinary things. That alone had her heightened senses teeming with analytical scenarios - all within seconds.
 

 

"Talk, now... or I will shoot you in the face."

 

 

Nora had put her gun back once they were deep inside the store and into the backroom. Walking the fringe of the room and coming in deeper, getting a better look at things as she came up behind the man Carroll threatened. Her voice was soft, but as full of command as it had been during her service to her former country. Carroll was over finesse, that much was clear. Nora was real careful not to use his name in front of the shooter, but there was a promised threat in her own words.

 

 

"I'm not sure I'd let this yellow-bellied coward get off that easy, mon cher."

 

 

Interrogations and violence were normalcy for years. After 'normalcy' went away, there was something altogether more feral about it for Nora, evidenced by her piercing awareness of her southern comrade. Layers so complex yet candidly simple wrapped her up in a cold shell of rock where within was housed something deeply rooted and more powerfully hot than even she could fathom, if she were to consider it. It rumbled and shifted beneath the veneer, eyes yet unopened.

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

He could appreciate her at his back, the asshole should have appreciated her more.  If it weren't for her presence after he threw him to the concrete in his back room, his fists would have followed... repeatedly.  The Cajun remembered what it was like to be a scared child, a sheltered child, taken advantage of by people that could read him for the green he was.  It should have soured him for life on the "peasants" of the world.  Instead it had lit a firestorm, and later sprouted an adventurer appreciative of the very culture that his parents had taught him to hate.

 

Right now, he wished they had taught him mercy.  The guy was younger than he was, but his face was etched in his memory... almost positive the boy he was no longer was recognizable in the man he'd become.  No shined shoes, no blazer that had been torn from him and thrown to the swamp.  No pleading, split lip- suddenly very aware of the gris-gris rolling at his collar bone that had been made and given to him shortly after that incident had almost killed him.

 

The little shit probably had no idea who Josef was, and that was what saved him at the moment from being pummeled to a bloody pulp.

 

Then again, there was also the fact that Miss Nora had indicated she might have known him too.  How was that possible?  Hazel snapped to her, searching her features for something familiar, backing off for a moment… boyhood fear stuffed down deeper as he pulled himself back into a controlled ease and tried to connect the dots silently.

 

"I'm not sure I'd let this yellow-bellied coward get off that easy, mon cher."

 

Lips pressed into a thin line, disarming and setting his weapon on the counter to get it out of his hands.  The fear turned anger was so thick, he didn't trust it in his hands.  He now had the power to make people pay for what they had done, but he wasn't that person. Of course, he'd never been face to face with anyone that had wronged him since he left.  Maybe he was that kind of person.

 

“Let me know when you no longer want it to be easy,”  he said quietly, leaning a hip on the counter and letting her lead the way.  Maybe he’d been wrong, all people from the old world weren’t exactly always saints.  He knew that.  Her connection to him?  It wasn’t a good sign, hoping to get some sort of answers from her fun time with the guy,  “Might want to tie that leg off so he doesn’t bleed all over my floor.”

[Nora Sheeley]

Lips stretched thin as Josef tried to probe into the soul behind her eyes; seeking something she could not answer. Nora's dark brows rose with a slow gentleness that contradicted everything in spite of it all, drawing in a moment of calm before those same arches pressed together with genuine confusion. Verdant slivers became more prominent swirling amongst the sandstone tinted irises, alight from the adrenaline pulsing through the thin corridors of veins throbbing for a taste of more. An addictive temptation that would not be revealed upon this first impression.

 

Nora wasn't sure if he was projecting or transferring his anger on her or if it was still fully reserved for the wounded man. Something shifted in him. The very energy in the room. Fleeting emotion teetered on something vulnerable in those sparse moments of locked gaze, but she couldn't place it right then. Something laid siege to him then, it seemed and temper again reverberated through out the room, damn near tangible.

Now, the dreg bleeding out in his backroom was quite another matter. His face glossy with sweat, he wasn't so tough anymore whimpering like a fitful child. Nora cut her glance to a spire of metal and then tilted her head towards the Cajun before she stood sideways, facing their new friend.  Her voice was deceptively soft, rough and husky from the hallow of her throat as she grabbed a wrist that suddenly flung itself up with balled fist. Tsking she used her right hand to return the favor and slammed it against his wound, twisting her knuckles so it invaded inward past open flesh and met the torn tissue. Grinding it in as he howled in pain she took his own fist and punched his face.

 

"Our little friend here needs to know there is a time limit bearing down on his salvation. Price is answers. You got 'em, someone might tie that leg off. You might get to live. I'd rather not have to clean up blood spatter from flying blood and brain - but, I can. Been there, done that."

She let go of him and gave one last thrust into his wound before she withdrew her fist and flexed her fingertips. He was howling, but he heard her. Even if he didn't, he damn well understood the language she was speaking. She had her back to Josef as she squatted down and looked at the man, searching his eyes, calm expression like a stone unmoved on her face. Countenance soft, lips relaxed but eyes were the hard end of business. She kept her hands loosely over her knees, open and ready almost casually in case he tried to strike so defense or even offense could be employed if she necessitated it.

 

"Now, we'd appreciate it if you would start talking - who's your target and why - or you got some kind of death wish vengeance thing going on - someone send you here, hm? Tick fucking tock, darlin. Time's just a bleedin' away," she added calmly.

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

All the power in the world resided in the eyes.  Every place he’d found himself in, from the mountains in Tibet to the sands in Peru, the eyes were one thing that even the best liars couldn’t hide behind. Some thought it was possible… everything in the person’s soul was always there if the right person looked deeply enough.  Even youth. Faces changed, bodies changed, but the eyes never wavered. It was exactly why he was choosing to cool his heels staring at one of his security monitors, he’d looked at the man long enough… his squeals not bringing even a flinch to the corners of his lashes.

 

"Our little friend here needs to know there is a time limit bearing down on his salvation. Price is answers. You got 'em, someone might tie that leg off. You might get to live. I'd rather not have to clean up blood spatter from flying blood and brain - but, I can. Been there, done that."

 

Wouldn’t be the first time he’d cleaned it up in that room particularly either.  First few years were a bit of a cowboy rodeo.  Things had calmed considerably once word had gotten out he didn’t take shit, and he had more bullets than they did

 

"Now, we'd appreciate it if you would start talking - who's your target and why - or you got some kind of death wish vengeance thing going on - someone send you here, hm? Tick fucking tock, darlin. Time's just a bleedin' away,"

 

The first sob barely caught his attention.  A younger guy with a gun shooting at a gun shop now in way over his head should have been gut wrenching for a gentleman that always looked for the fun side of life.  Inside, he was still raging.  Fear did horrible things when it was bottled and stifled, unrequited and marginalized.  He highly doubted the kid was here for him, an incredibly odd coincidence of fate that he was now bleeding on his floor when twenty years ago it was the other way around and they had shown him no mercy.

 

He wasn’t that person. But he wasn’t a hero either, and he didn’t have to forgive.

 

*npc*  …wait…  wait, I know you.. hey..

 

He wasn’t that person… he kept telling himself that, arms crossed tightly as the words were starting to clear through the man’s sniffles and attempts to get his shit together. The scrape on his concrete floor was feeble, the fish trying to move slightly to see him better.

 

*npc*  Hey… c’mon, help me out here..  um.. um..  JoJo?  ..Josef? 

 

Gaze had cooled to a gunmetal gray, moving to the man in recognition when he knew there was nothing more he could hide.

 

*npc*  I knew it was you!  Hey…

 

He was moving slightly toward the gunkeeper, pulling himself up on his elbows.

 

*npc*  This guy and I, we go back a long ways…

 

He was trying to appeal his buddy buddy with the shop owner to Miss Nora, a pretend connection to a pretend friendship. Funny how years warped reality.  Josef had unconsciously uncrossed his arms and taken a step forward.

 

*npc*  Saved him from an alligator once…  poor guy

 

Oh how time forgot details, scoring knife snatched off the workbench as he tore through the man’s pants with it where his bullet had gone through; one hand over his mouth to stop him from his constant bullshit drivel, the other dropping the knife with a clang as he clutched the calf- fingers in the bullet holes.

 

“You feel that?”  he fought to keep his breath steady, all the suppressed fear pouring out in a fit of focused rage.  The hand on the man’s leg began to heat up, noticed immediately as the cuss began to squirm.  “That’s the feeling of years of training brought to perfect control. I can burn your organs to dust…” words were through his gritted teeth.  “Be thankful I’m just cauterizing your wound,” hands over the man’s mouth muffled a horrific scream.  Smell of burnt flesh was nonexistent to him.  It was a hazard he’d become used to. “If I ever see you again I will sear the flesh from your bones.”

 

Screen flickered only briefly before he let go, picking up the knife and launching it with incredible force across the room, bouncing and clanging from the tantrum.  If not the knife, it would have been the man.

 

“Kill him, beat the shit out of him, I don’t care.” 

 

He pushed up and slammed through the door back into his shop, controlled breath bringing everything back into focus.  There were times he had exquisite control over himself, others he wished he would have stayed longer to finish his high level training.  He felt off kilter sometimes, like a bomb waiting to go off at the first sign of vibration that rattled his cage.  Filling a glass with water from his utility sink, hand settled on his hip as he drank quietly and watched the news.  Alligators. Swamps. Youth.

 

He’d thought he’d escaped all of it.

[Nora Sheeley]

Nora Sheeley didn't fuck around when it came to loose ends. Her endgame was simple and direct and she took the word 'end,' in particular, very seriously. In fact, it tended to provide a very literal and final solution whenever possible dependent upon gathered intel and what was the most beneficial option for using to her advantage.

Silence. As poignant and powerful a weapon as anything if one knew how to use it. Features were usually stalwart when interrogation was on the docket and schooled into a façade of unyielding ice cold neutrality, but Josef Carroll Boudreaux threw her off - on a lot of untapped levels. This latest revelation was just added to a swiftly growing pile of queries. In spite of it all, she was as studious a scholar of perceptive observation than anything and easily compartmentalized it, as she so often did.

Even so, Nora was human underneath it all. Countenance wavered upon the tower of strength she presented, its shock rippling with a diffused plume beneath the surface as it tried to repel the astonishing exchange carried out before her between the two men. The stench of charred flesh had delicate nostrils flaring as pearly whites remained locked together, a full lower lip jutting out slightly as her eyes squinted. Weakness would have been using her hands to plug her nose, far too high a price to risk.

Josef's anger, nor his dismissal before he exited the room caused a flinch from the hardass petite. Instead, Nora kept her gaze locked on the sniveling fool in front of her. She wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth either and would use her time efficiently. He may have altered her fast-evolving game plan, but she was accustomed to adapting as fast as she could shift into her earthen form when necessity demanded it as the last option. Calculating adjustment to her approach, she waited a few resounding beats after he slammed through the door to resonate with her subject and reflected what his thoughts might well be aloud.

"That sure was nice of Mr. Josef, now, wasn't it," Nora said with that sweet southern drawl she retained from youth. "No one to save you now except me though, cher, and we don't exactly have what you would call a trusting relationship, do we?"

*NPC* He was trembling, whimpering still in pain, teeth ruminating with unnatural movement - like he was ghosting food chewed in his mouth between the grinding of enamel. Beady eyes as wide as they could be, the former hothead worked up his courage and mustered sound ripped from his lips. "No ma'am."

Nora allowed him to see a well-played expression of curiosity, sans surprise, as a dark brow rose. Loosely entwined fingertips hung between her knees almost casually, conversationally - as she continued to squat next to him, raven hair falling forward over one of her shoulders. She watched his eyes cut to it, his hand twitched but remained a trembling pool on the floor. This granted him the hint of an upturned corner of her lips, just a phantom of a brush before her verdant eyes flickered, the sandstone irises like liquid pools falling back into a hemorrhage of true hazel.

"Mm. How fast you learn, darlin'. Since you are an old friend of a new friend of mine, I may let all that exertion he wasted on you see the light of day. My name is Nora, but I reckon you know that. Who am I speaking with?"

The question was an easy volley full of its own purpose.

*NPC* "LeChanche. Marty LeChanche."

"LeChanche is a little known name to me, cher. Illuminate me on why you are here."

He clamed up immediately, just as Nora suspected he might. That confirmed what she was dealing with, but not on what sort of level yet. She leaned forward a little bit, invading his personal space and locked her gaze squarely on his before she led him to where she was going as it cut to his leg. She let her eyes purposely drag back to meet his, real nice and slow. Brows rose before relaxing into a softer, relaxed line as she watched the myriad of expressions flicker across his face.

*NPC* "I … I …"

Nora pursed her lips as she watched the cogs turn wheels whirring behind his eyes, the contemplation of weighing two evils, predominant. A single knee rested on the ground as she leaned in further, moving it and shifting her full weight to pin one of his wrists in warning as his eyes began to dart around with panic. She didn't push her advantage and waited for him to come to the conclusion on his own. He'd been a fighter even when he was down, clumsy as an alligator trying to make its way through a Mardi Gras parade down Bourbon Street, but feisty just the same.

Her hand shot out faster than a rattler and found his neck, while the other caught the catapult of his free hand coming towards her face. His legs simply squirmed for a moment and then withered into a half-hearted flailing before they stilled, the pain in the injured limb too much. Guttural, bubbling throat raw and in desperate need of lubrication rasped beneath her fingertips as his head thrashed back and forth.

He wasn't the brightest bulb. If he was smart, he'd have gone for the gun at her hip rather than her face. He was too simple, predictable. As she moved, Nora eased up and moved her thumb and forefinger just right into position to apply pressure to his throat. She gave him one more chance. One offer extended with the promise of her commitment to follow through on her word.

"In a moment, I could end it for good, cher. What you have to decide is if you want me to end you with my hands right now like I said earlier, or whether you wanna take your chances with whoever it is sent you and have a fair shot at disappearing off the grid. Tick fucking tock, darlin'. You got about ten seconds to share, you just blink at me twice if you interested ... or whether I might should relieve you of your stay here on the planet earth."

The veneer slid into place without effort, formidable as it was unforgiving. She meant business and it showed without any manner of doubt. Her barely auditable utterances were intimately laced with malevolence. Something broke in her after the Nevus. Something that heightened the already competent skill set she possessed. Something about the power was seductive now; something Nora enjoyed. Something she recognized as dangerous, warranting extra care. She hadn't lost it yet, but she knew how close to the edge she had come … and how hard it was not to jump into what could become a full-blown addiction.

"Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … "

He gurgled, panicked and started thrashing desperately again.

"Five … four …" she drawled in a raspy whisper.

He was nearly flailing in a fit of berserker rage and despair.

"Three …"

He blinked profusely and Nora shook her head, with the barest caress of a 'tsk' slipping from her lips.

 

Too many blinks.

"Just … two.." she said, waiting those long, corresponding seconds.

 

Lips closed before opening as if in slow motion as the next moment dragged out.

"Oooo…" she began with all the time in the world.

Two very clear, decisive blinks.

Now, they were on the same page.

Nora released him and stood, a deceptive and unexpected pillar of seemingly diminutive force over him. She inhaled the lingering scent of burned flesh through her nose with a grimace and let it flood her, fused with the calming breath of victory. Bolstered, Nora folded her arms beneath her breasts, creating a nice self for them to spill over as the fabric of her shirt was pulled taut, jacket having already fallen open revealing a peek at the firearm holstered on the camber of her hip. Eyes alight with self-assurance, the slight jut of her chin rose a fraction as she looked down her nose at him. When he finally regained his breath, Nora's expression did not change and remained merciless and coldly professional.

*NPC* "Baptiste Reynaud."

Baptiste Reynaud?

Nora grunted and gave a curt nod of her head.

"Why?"

*NPC* "Didn't say."

Nora eyed him and gave him a warning kick with her boot to the ribs, a crack breaking the silence that followed. More pain, choked sobbing from Marty.

*NPC* "I swear it!"

Inhaling sharply through her nose, Nora walked a circle around him and stopped at his head when she made it around. Squatting again so his face was framed between her knees she moved her hands to hold him splayed on either side of his skull. It would be easy to just lift up and break his neck, though it could have appeared assured comfort to an injured soul. Fingertips wanted to twitch, but were held with strict discipline at bay.

She wasn't done.

Not yet.

Just what the hell did a stately, prominent man like that with a renown Krewe touting the best old flambeaux in Old N'awlins want with a nobody like Nora Sheeley - past or present?

"What kinda superpower we talkin' bout now with old Reynaud?"

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

The front was his haven, his place to revisit the old world.  Solace, a land of make-believe to imagine and dream of the way he wanted everything to have been instead of what was.  He hadn’t thought about his deep seated soul-fears in a really long time, let alone been face to face with them.   Life had taken a distinct turn after he left home, danger was a norm and he loved every moment of it, somehow managing to supersede the distress of a childhood that was wrought with relentless bullying because of his privilege.  He was uncertain what had come over him back there; whether the feigned affection from an “old friend” or the crippling fear he thought he’d shed years ago had combined and snapped him, bringing forth a terrifying  range of abilities.  That wasn’t what they were for, he wasn’t that kind of person.

 

Maybe he was, but he left her to finish something that had apparently been only meant for her.  Fate again was dragging  him kicking and screaming into the crosshairs of trouble, perhaps it was what he was always destined.

 

Grabbing a loose rag and bottle of spray cleaner, he began to polish the old school “General Store” type display cases that contained his precious antiques.  As time ticked on and nobody emerged from the back room, it gave him time to gather his wits.   He was having a hard time stabilizing the juice he had collected in order to sear the wound on the guy’s leg.  He’d wanted to do more, inflict more pain, even kill the man.  He hadn’t.  At one time in his life he might have, he wasn’t that person.  Trained and lethal to a point, the rogue was quite a bit more stable than most rogues that were flouncing around the city blowing themselves up.  Not that he hadn’t managed to blow himself up, it had sort of been on purpose.  He’d spent time with the Order, been trained, and ultimately decided to skate out at a great cost.  It was incredibly stupid to have threatened him, and insanely stupid of him to reciprocate with magic. 

 

Those were the types of slip-ups that brought down hammers and the blowbacks could have severe consequences.  He was comfortable with his place in the world.  It was the second day in a row his world was being rocked.  He had to find some normalcy at least for the moment… so he kept polishing, knowing full well someone he barely knew was left alone with someone he wished he’d never known in the back of his shop.

 

Sitting back at his worktable near the front counter, he continued his project… seething out the static mana to flip the televisions in the room- an oddity some saw as security.  It was, sort of.  They all connected to each other, and the cameras around the building.  Every room had one, some from various angles.  They flipped to his back storage.  Miss Nora seemed to have come to some sort of “amiable” conversation with the man in question, when all he wanted was for her to bash his head in and be done with it.  It wasn’t the first body he’d have to get rid of in his line of work.  Wouldn’t be the last.

 

Damn thirsty.

 

It was inevitable, the weird mojo that coursed through his body always in need of water, getting up to fill a glass and lean on the counter to watch the show.  If she got what she needed, either way he probably should explain why in the hell he knew the asshole- or why the jerk knew him.  Revisiting old wounds would not be a pleasant afternoon… in a series of unpleasant afternoons.  For this, he might have to break out his bourbon.

[Nora Sheeley]

*NPC* "One of them magicians who splices shit up and drives a taxi."

Nora's eyes narrowed just slightly, her jaw beginning to tick as her fingertips tensed. He was lying. Eyes shifting too much with abnormal blinking. When he finally did meet her eyes, he wavered. Something struck those beady little rat eyes of his that told her he was mentally starting to scramble, to lose his hold on his facilities. Time felt like it was slipping from her hold as articulate compartmentalized recollection sorted out abnormality.

The gnashing teeth earlier…

"Where is he now?"

*NPC* "Gambling at a casino, I reckon."

He was singing far too prettily now. Far, far too calm for her tastes. He had done a complete turnaround. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out he was just starting to make shit up. The thought of snapping his neck again pushed itself to the forefront but she denied it, shut it down as immediately as it had come upon her. All she could hope for now was that some of his inane babble would illuminate some sort of subliminal clue she could pick out of the cesspool of his pabulum.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

*NPC* "He got feelers everywhere. Real nice and close to you, Miss Nora."

Nora saw the foam start to form from the corner of his lips; his eyes changed and glowed brilliant, neon green. That strategy may well have to be dead in the water before the motor of the boat even started running. Something underneath his skin rippled, causing it to bubble, fingernails began to elongate. Before talons could form, Nora snapped his neck with a bittersweet, satisfying crack shattering the quiet where only the soft and eerie echo of stretching skin coupled with the pungent scent of burnt flesh.

Frozen in time before the shape could be revealed, Nora studied the fresh corpse and after a few moments, her fingers slide down the man's jawline to his mouth where saliva fused with the beginning of spume unrealized in its rapid lather. Gingerly pulling back his lips, she folded the top one up and saw the tiny pinprick of canine fangs starting to push their way out of his gums. Nora let go and let his head bounce unceremoniously on the concrete floor.

There was little to no time to waste.

 

Nora stood with animalistic efficiency and made a straight line for the door Carroll had disappeared through. It swung open with a sense of her urgency. Legs stretched long, bridging the distance towards him. She had a lot on her mind, but the seasoned multi-tasker didn’t give a hint of it. There was a lot and more to consider, but at the moment, it would have to be put inside a shelf, much like the ones used to display the antique wares he peddled out front. She stopped, insistence saturated with genuine southern charm, from one native ‘Big Easy’ resident to another found in that big, old mixed-up new world.

 

“I’m sorry to put you between a rock and a hard place, cher,” Nora said quietly – little did Josef know the literal meaning of that adage coming from her lips.

 

“Our new friend is dead. I gotta real prime place in mind to dispose of him, but I could use your particular brand of expertise. It’s about two hours north,” she said, letting a little dry humor slip into her tone. Eyes searched his for reaction, aptly perceiving his facial expressions as her hand extending so that fingertips curled around his forearm and gave him a gentle squeeze as she said his name in earnest, giving a moment’s pause in time.

 

“Please, Josef – I could really use your brand of help. I know it’s a lot to ask for a first date, but I’ll buy ya that dinner and fill you in on the drive. We gotta leave right now though – and if you don’t, I understand. Otherwise, you got a back door I can pull around to?”

[Josef Carroll Boudreaux]

Keen hazel was still dark, watching the interplay in his back room with intense interest.  Conversation seemed to be flowing, wishing at the moment he could read lips but knowing he probably didn’t want to know what they were saying.  He was finding himself collecting any residual energy he could get his hands on, consciously. Anger still lingered, the urge to hurt in insanely cruel ways held at bay, too close to the surface to admit.  He wasn’t ashamed he could be so willing to inflict pain, he was concerned it was the first thing that came to the forefront of his thoughts.  For all their faults, his parents were not evil people, and they didn’t teach him to be cruel. 

 

Teeth were set on edge when shit really started to become a mess, thumb more than once coming up from the stoic cross of arms to brush thoughtfully across his chin, hands transferring to his hips when she ended the shindig… leaving them both in a rather awful mess.  Snatching his rifle, he wiped it down and transferred it back under the counter where it belonged for “security” purposes, keeping himself busy again until she decided what she was going to do.

 

Narrowed lashes flicked up when she returned to his small front fortress of solitude, pent up vibration buzzing along his skin.  Televisions flipped back to silent news stations.

 

“I’m sorry to put you between a rock and a hard place, cher,”

 

Hands rested on his hips again as he surveyed the work across his table.  He had kind of contributed to that himself, even though he was protecting his turf- rightfully so.  It was the kind of publicity that would keep assholes away from his place. But this… the world had righted itself to the point where this could be construed as a crime.  Last thing he needed was cops at his door.

 

“Our new friend is dead. I gotta real prime place in mind to dispose of him, but I could use your particular brand of expertise. It’s about two hours north,”

 

Eyes flicked to the television.  This was two days in a row.  Staying under the Order’s radar was not going to happen at this rate.  He wasn’t afraid, he knew what fear was and he had the tools to protect himself, to a point.  It wasn’t until she put her hand on his arm that he finally looked to her.

 

“Please, Josef – I could really use your brand of help. I know it’s a lot to ask for a first date, but I’ll buy ya that dinner and fill you in on the drive. We gotta leave right now though – and if you don’t, I understand. Otherwise, you got a back door I can pull around to?”

 

Lips pressed together. This was his world, his haven.  Anywhere else was a crapshoot. In New York, he could hide in the herds of people.  Outside?  His life had hit full reverse since the Resonance.  Before, he could hide who he was in the most remote places.  Now, leaving the safety of the city could be a death sentence for him.  Rogues were either brought back into the folds, rendered powerless… or killed.  Mostly killed, especially since he knew what most didn’t.  There was no way they were going to accept on faith that he would keep his mouth shut.  He couldn’t risk it.

 

“I can’t go with you, I’m sorry,”  he was quiet… it was the truth.  Who he was before had made him a prisoner and he’d been able to escape.  Now?  Inescapable.  His expertise in a remote location was a beacon for trouble.  She was asking him to expose himself to more than just danger, and she didn’t know it… he didn’t know how to explain.  He was a criminal?  A drop-out?  One of the bad guys?  “Pull into the alley, I have a back door.”

 

Expression was dark, glance to her before he disappeared into the back room to unbolt the back loading dock door and drag their friend to his exit.  He simply could not go with her... but when she returned, if their paths crossed again there would be questions that needed answers....