The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea Chapter Forty Three (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply


A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… yes, that too… InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink and Dracena are loverly and wonderful for archiving/hosting! ProPhile… so…wink wink nudge nudge…. Morgan: *glomp * Readers/Reviewers: next twit you meet, slap them for me, would you?


Remy hated traffic. Plain and simple. It was, he felt, a sure sign of the demise of modern society. He felt that Rome fell due to traffic. It had to be, he thought as he tried unsuccessfully to navigate a traffic circle and turn onto another road, otherwise people would still have chariots and wear push brooms on their heads. In the hastily procured car seat, Solange began to cry. “Shhhh,” he crooned with a suavity he did not feel, “we gonna be dere soon.” He slammed on the breaks, wincing as Solange’s snuffles became full on wails. “Shhhhhhh!” He turned the radio up louder, growling every invective he knew when the familiar beeping noise to indicate urgent news cut across the baby’s wails. He turned the radio off, biting his tongue on a curse to fling at the driver who had cut him off. “Well, we gonna have some fas’ talkin’, eh?” he chattered, hoping to distract the baby from her crying and himself from worries over Jubilee and the others. “You gonna like dese folk… dey ain’t nothin’ like dem Thieves an’ Assassins. Much.” He sighed in relief as a break in the traffic opened. Taking the chance, he sped forward, swerving to miss a slow moving truck and feeling the invisible burden on his shoulders lighten as he made it onto the road towards Emma’s mansion. “Finally,” he muttered. “Dis town is fuckin’ crazy1.”
Solange settled into burbling and sniffling in alternate cycles, happy one moment and upset the next. Remy had purchased some formula at the same time he had found the car seat, hasty purchases that he vaguely regretted having to use pocket money on. He was smarter than to use a credit card, especially after leaving Belladonna like that. It did not take a master thief or an expert assassin to track a man from New York to Massachusetts, especially if they were mad enough to cause harm. Remy fell into a rhythm, checking the baby, checking the rearview mirror, then wang tng the road in short intervals. He was nearly hypnotized by the sound of the changing concrete and asphalt beneath the tires of the rental car, finding himself counting the bumps as he performed his checks. He knew that Emma’s house was not far from Boston proper but it was not in one of the popular suburbs. He would have to go off the main roads and towards some of the older, outlying areas, places where the families had been the same since the Revolution, if not earlier. As he drove, the traffic thinned and he was able to relax, snapping himself out of the hypnotic rhythm he had been slowly settling into. Solange stopped crying so he turned the radio back on, just loud enough to keep him awake but not loud enough to understand what was being said or sung. “Jus’ a bit longer, chere,” he murmured as Solange snuffled softly in her sleep. She needed to be changed soon, he knew logically, but he hoped he could get to the house and get one of the girls, probably Rahne or one of the more maternal types, to do it. He sighed as he saw the sign for the last turn he needed to take and smiled. Not long now, he knew. He paid no attention to the two cars parked on the side of the road, almost in the ditch. He frowned when he saw the third car, just a bit further up the road. “Peut-etre,” he suggested as if Solange could understand, “it’s berry season?” He hissed a curse and slammed on the brakes as the fourth car, a large station wagon, swerved and skidded sideways to block the road in front of him. “Va te fais fouts avec une fourchette2!” he yelled, making Solange cry loudly. He put the car in park as the man driving the other vehicle got out, staring at something off to the right side of the road. Remy swore again and unbuckled, gathered the baby and got out of the car. “What de hell you tink you doin’, homme?” he called, moving towards the stranger.
The man did not reply, just stared open-mouthed away from Remy and towards the right. Someone else, someone from one of the other cars that had pulled off to the side of the road, called out to Remy, “Ain’t you been listening to the radio, jackass? We’re being invaded!”
Remy rolled his eyes. “You been listenin’ ta too much o’ dem ol’ radio shows,” he said, exasperated as he turned, then froze. Above the treetops, three enormous silver heads were visible, facing to the north, the direction he was heading. He knew in his gut where the figures were standing. “Merde,” he breath “Me “Merde merde merde merde!” He turned and strode back to the car, fastening Solange into the seat in record time. “Hol’ on,” he told her. “Dis ain’ gonna be healthy so les’ hope de good lord be wid us…” He put the car in gear and hit the accelerator, swerving around the man parked in the middle of the road and speeding down the asphalt. He was wide awake now, panicking to say the least. He tasted copper and bile in his throat as he raced through the possibilities, the Brotherhood and Magneto springing to mind first. _Mebbe it ain’t dem after all,_ he tried to reason. _Mebbe it someone worse?_ He found that he much preferree ide idea that it was Magneto, a known quantity rather than someone, anyone else. He stopped a hundred yards or so from the silvery gate delineating the Frost property line. The figures looked like massive statues but he knew better. He knew they were something more sinister. He stared, uncertain. Finally, gritting his teeth, he made a decision and pulled slowly up to the gate. They did not open. His eyes flicked to the sensor set into the topmost curlicue of silvery metal and he sighed. They power supply was cut off, thus locking the gate against anyone wishing to enter from the road. “D’accord,” he sighed. “Hol’ on….”


1 If you’ve ever driven in New Orleans, kno know that this statement is really something coming from a native. They drive CRAZY in NOLA. Sort of a hold on for dear life thing.
2 *ahem* Go fuck yourself with a fork.