Chapter Text
Rogue drained the last of her daiquiri, enjoying the way the final hit of tart lime chased the sweetness across her tongue. The noise of Hermes settled around her like a warm blanket.
Eyeing the empty glass, she hesitated a moment before flagging the bartender for a second. What was Mardi Gras for if not cutting loose?
The bartender—a retired thief named Pierre, somewhere between sixty and two hundred years old—immediately placed another drink in front of her and winked. Rogue smiled and tried to slide a few bills across the counter to him, but he waved her off.
“No one pays tonight, Peeswank,” he grinned, showing off a gold tooth.
“For your time then,” Rogue nudged the bills toward him again.
“Keep your money, pretty girl. You can buy yourself some beads instead o’ putting up with ‘em fools trying t’ convince ya t’ get them the ol’ fashioned way,” Pierre jerked his chin towards the rest of the Thieves milling around.
Rogue rolled her eyes, but tucked the bills away.
Hermes served as the Thieves’ front in the Garden District, but even on Mardi Gras, the bar wasn’t packed the way an Outsider might expect. Of course, that might have to do with the LeBeaus taking pains to make sure that Hermes wasn’t listed anywhere.
No signage. No tourists. No chaos.
“Evenin’, Petite,” Jean-Luc slid into the space beside her barstool like he owned the room — which, technically, he did. “Havin’ fun?”
“Mm-hmm,” Rogue spun on her barstool to survey the room. Cards slapped the top of a table near the back of the bar. Someone whooped, and a cork popped. “Looks like everyone else is too.”
“What?” Jean-Luc teased with a knowing look. “No desire t’ go into de Quarter tonight and see de celebration?”
Rogue rolled her eyes for real this time.
She might not be from New Orleans, but it didn’t take a genius to know why the locals chose to stay out of the Quarter on Mardi Gras. It was the same reason sensible people avoided open flames near gasoline.
“Nah, I’d rather enjoy my night than fight the crowds. Besides, I’ve heard a rumor that the pick-pockets tend to be vicious tonight,” Rogue said, taking a sip of her drink. “They’ll rob ya blind then ask for ya for spare change.”
Jean-Luc grinned unabashedly and tsk-ed in mock-woe, “Is dat so? What has become of today’s youth?”
Rogue chuckled into her daiquiri. She wondered who’d been unfortunate enough to get stuck taking the youngin’s around the Quarter for “field practice” tonight.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Jean-Luc said, rising. “There’s a poker game that’s starting up. And since at least one of my heathen sons doesn’t seem t’ be present, I think I’ll try my luck.”
Rogue watched him saunter across the room to join a group of older Thieves shuffling cards. Usually, when she and Remy were in town, the younger Thieves stuck to the bars and clubs in the Quarter while the old guard held court at Hermes. But tonight everyone was keeping close to home.
“Hey, Sha,” Mercy greeted. Rogue could help but envy how she moved like smoke through the crowd. “Have you seen Henri?”
“No,” Rogue paused. A slow prickle crept up the back of her neck. “Actually, Jean-Luc just said Remy was missing too.”
Mercy’s mouth flattened. She caught a passing Apprentice by the shoulder. “You seen Henri and Remy?”
“Ouias,” the teen answered, “They left ‘bout an hour ago with Emil, Theo, and Etienne. Said they was hungry and wanted to hit Bourbon Street for something to eat.”
“Merde.”
“Shit.”
Rogue stared at her drink, her relaxed mood evaporating. Mercy scrubbed a hand over her face and muttered something under her breath she’d never dare say in front of Tante.
“Rogue—”
“Don’t say it,” she held up a hand.
“We got to go get them,” Mercy reasoned. “Or else Pere will skin them alive for getting out of pocket in public.”
“Do we really, though?” Rogue huffed, digging her heels in—metaphorically and literally. She had a steady supply of drinks and a comfy barstool in an uncrowded bar, and she had no intention of giving any of it up without a fight.
Pulling out her phone she unlocked the screen. “Can’t we just text them?”
River Rat (11:20 PM): Where’d you go?
Mercy raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You really think that’s gonna work?”
Nope. “Yep.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Rogue didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she stared at the screen, willing Remy to text back. If she could find out where the boys were, maybe Mercy would let her stay right where she was. Three little dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then reappeared.
Swamp Rat (11:24 PM): we r fine
Swamp Rat (11:24 PM): VERY FINE
Swamp Rat (11:25 PM): bourban st has ✨culture✨
Swamp Rat (11:25 PM): Heading for jam ball liar
Swamp Rat (11:25 PM): 👍
Rogue stared at the screen. “…Jam ball liar?”
Mercy leaned in. “Is that a place?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
Mercy tilted her head. “Sounds like a crime.”
Rogue snorted despite herself. “If it’s a club, we’re letting them stay.”
She typed back:
River Rat (11:27 PM): What is jam ball liar?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Nothing else came.
Rogue exhaled through her nose and stuffed the phone back into her pocket. Great. They’d transcended language.
“We'd better get a move on,” Rogue grumbled and shrugged on her bomber jacket. “Even with a winning streak, Jean-Luc won’t stay distracted forever.”
Mercy made a sound of agreement and held open a side door, allowing them to slip into the alleyway beside the building. “We’ll have to take the streetcar to the Quarter. It’ll be packed, but at least it will be moving. Once we cross Canal, though, we’ll be on foot.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Rogue sighed, recalling her last time in this city for Mardi Gras. Honestly, one adventure on Bourbon Street was enough for a lifetime in her books.
Bourbon Street never shied away from making a spectacle of itself, but on Mardi Gras the City was in rare form.
Neon flickered in pinks and greens that bled into the damp air. Gas lamps burned flickering gold, their glow swallowed by flashing bar signs and LED beer logos. Music collided mid-block as brass bands fought with thudding bass. Somewhere, a trumpet tried valiantly to rise above a DJ remix.
Rogue grunted as another reveler swayed suddenly, shoulder-checking her as he passed. The man slurred out something that could have been an apology or profanity. Either way, she didn’t slow down to parse it.
The air was warmer here, with bodies packed too close together. Humidity clung to her skin, making the fabric of her shirt stick to her low back. The air smelled like the dregs of a punchbowl and bodily fluids.
Lovely. She wrinkled her nose.
Mercy—bless her soul—stayed glued to her side. The glare she wore could’ve been ripped straight from Vivien Leigh’s book, sending the crowd parting just enough to let them through.
A wave of gratitude swelled up in her throat. Covered up or not, large crowds still made Rogue’s heart want to crawl around inside her chest.
A vibration in her pocket caught her attention. Remy. Rogue dove for it. She’d texted him as soon as they’d gotten off the streetcar. That had been twenty-five minutes ago.
Swamp Rat (12:39 AM): we r fine
Swamp Rat (12:39 AM): VERY FINE
Rogue’s jaw tightened.
River Rat: (12:50 AM): We’re on Bourbon Street. Where are you?
The dots appeared almost immediately.
Swamp Rat (12:54 AM): we re cats now
Rogue stared blankly at the screen, willing the three little bubbles to appear again. Mercy’s eyebrows pulled together in a crease staring at the words. Around them, people continued to flow by, lit by neon and gas lamps.
Rogue turned the words over and over in her head, trying to puzzle them around.
We re cats now?
Cats now?
Cats?
Her eyes drifted, looking for some sort of clue, until they snagged on a flashing sign halfway down the block. Purple and pink neon blinked in rhythm, outlining a silhouette twirling around a pole.
The Cat’s Meow.
Her stomach dropped.
Oh hell. They can’t be that dumb, Rogue groaned.
There were very few situations in which it was wise to inform Mercy that her husband might currently be inside a strip club on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras.
For a moment, Rogue considered dropping her phone in the nearest hurricane glass and claiming technological failure. Instead, because she apparently had a death wish, she cleared her throat.
“You don’t think,” she began carefully, “they went into the Cat’s Meow. Do you?”
Mercy went very still.
Her gaze slid toward the sign. The blinking neon painted her cheekbones pink for half a second before fading.
“If they did,” Mercy said evenly, “the gators at Blood Moon are gonna have their own Fat Tuesday.”
Rogue winced. That did not sound like a metaphor.
“C’mon, Sha.” Mercy stalked forward.
A group of frat boys laughing too loudly near the curb took one look at her expression and scattered instinctively.
Rogue cursed under her breath and scrambled after her, already picturing the fallout.
Good Lord, please let this be a misunderstanding.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Rogue blew out a breath and sent a small cloud of body glitter into the humid night air. It sparkled briefly under the neon before drifting down onto the sticky pavement.
Her face felt frozen in place, and there had to be at least a pound of glitter stuck to the tops of her boobs. Mercy was even worse off, having gotten closer to the stage. She shimmered like Tinkerbelle.
The smell of stripper perfume wafted in the air. Rogue had a sinking suspicion it was coming from them.
“Well,” Mercy said flatly, brushing sparkles from her coat. “That was a bust.”
“Ya think?”
The Cat’s Meow sign blinked innocently above them as if it hadn’t just cost them twenty minutes and most of their dignity.
“You get another text from Remy?” Mercy asked.
Rogue glanced at her phone. “No. You?”
Mercy pulled out her own phone and cursed. “Oui.”
Rogue leaned over. Peering down at the phone, it was a photo taken of the parade floats from the rooftops. The parade floats glowed like moving jewels several blocks down, their lights shimmering against the dark. The angle was steep, with the rooftops barely visible in the lower edge of the frame.
Rogue blinked. “Where are they?”
“Close,” Mercy muttered.
She glanced up at the rooftops and narrowed her eyes. Rogue followed her gaze. Iron balconies, slate roofs, and chimneys soared overhead. In between it all, shadows moved where shadows shouldn’t be moving.
Unease slid up her spine, as realization dawned slowly.
We re cats now.
“Oh,” Rogue breathed.
Not the Cat’s Meow. Cats.
Like actual cats.
“They weren’t lying,” Mercy said tightly. “They took to the roofs.”
Rogue stared at the row of buildings lining Bourbon and shook her head.
“Nope,” she said firmly. “Nuh-uh. No. We are not—”
Mercy ignored her. “Follow me.”
“And just where are we going?” Rogue demanded as they cut into a narrow alley, the noise of Bourbon dulling behind brick and damp stone.
“Up.”
“I beg your finest pardon.”
Mercy didn’t slow. She waved Rogue toward the back of a building where a rusted iron staircase clung to the exterior wall.
“They’re sticking to the roofs,” Mercy said, already climbing. “Thieves use the rooftops. Assassins use the alleys. Keeps us from stepping on each other’s toes. And it’s faster.”
Rogue stared up at the staircase.
“I’m wearing cowboy boots.”
Mercy hooked a leg over the second-floor railing and pulled herself onto the balcony with smooth efficiency. “It’ll be fine. Most of the roofs ain’t that steep.”
“That is not comforting.” Rogue mumbled.
She glanced down at the hard stone below and cursed. Gingerly, she swung a leg over, sending up a prayer that the iron filigree would hold her weight. All she’d wanted was a daiquiri and barstool tonight…maybe a round of pool too.
“But not Remy….no. Remy wants to play find-and-go fuck himself,” Rogue snarled under her breath as she started to climb. “Stupid Swamp Rat. To damn cheap to pay the delivery fee on UberEats.”
The iron filigree creaked under her weight. Rogue swallowed, but forced herself to focus on the gutters in front of her
Popping her head over the gutter line, she stared at the slope beyond. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Mercy was already across the roof, boots finding purchase like she’d been born to it.
Rogue clenched her jaw and climbed.
Slate shifted under her soles. The roof smelled faintly of hot tar and old rain. Somewhere below, a trumpet squealed triumphantly.
Hoisting herself over the roof ridge, Rogue flopped onto the flatter section beyond and lay there a second, staring at the sky.
“You seen my dignity laying around anywhere, Sug? Last I saw it was on Bourbon Street. Or was that the streetcar?”
Mercy snorted and offered her a hand. Rogue took it.
“So now what?” she asked, brushing grit off her palms.
“Any Thief stuck in the Quarter on Mardi Gras knows to move South to North,” Mercy replied, scanning the rooftops. “It puts you against the flow of people. The photo was taken three blocks from here.”
Three blocks. Across rooftops. It might as well have been three miles.
“They’re drunk,” Rogue said, trying not to look at the gaps between the buildings. “Should we be worried?”
“Probably,” Mercy replied, stepping over an AC unit. “But not about them falling. Those boys could be blind-possum drunk and still run these roofs.”
That did not make Rogue feel any better. Still, she followed Mercy, trying to match her steps exactly. It was slow going, but they made it across one roof, then another.
Rogue scrambled over a chimney she had no business touching and edged along a stone molding that felt more decorative than structural.
Her thighs burned. Her boots were absolutely not designed for this. Somewhere between the second and third jump, she decided she was never forgiving Remy for this.
They landed on a wider flat-top roof overlooking an intersection.
Rogue exhaled in relief.
A flash of green caught her attention. “Are those the beads Emil was wearing earlier?”
Mercy nodded, picking up the strand of beads decorated with little green gators that squeaked when you squeezed them. “They stopped here.”
She peered over the edge.
Rogue moved cautiously to the edge to stand next to Mercy and looked down. On the corner below, a cluster of musicians had claimed a patch of sidewalk. A bouncy jazz tune rose up to meet her ears.
That tracked. The only thing Remy loved as much as this city’s food was the music that ran in its veins.
Mercy’s phone dinged again, and she checked the screen. Rogue moved closer to read the message over her shoulder.
Theo (12:08 AM): Remy got handed a grenade