C'est la Vie

[Maia Coltraine]

At nine in the morning Vil du Sel Rivaj was as hot as the Devil's bedroom, waves of heat rolling off the cracked asphalt in myriads of swaying silhouettes. By noon the sun would render any activity impossible and the small coastal city would transform into a veritable ghost town. It's residents, having settled hundreds of years prior, were accustomed to the scorching heat and had adapted accordingly; they were all early risers.

The stifling sultriness of the air was only magnified in the old section of town. Commonly reffered to as Seya Vil, the centuries-old historic section was a mass of crumbling brick buildings with wrought-iron gables, peeling paint in once-bright colours; red, lime, turquoise and fuschia all vied for the attention of the eye. Old men shuffled slowly down the streets that, though paved, seemed entirely composed of dust that stirred with the slightest movement. In the spaces between cafes and apartment buildings--which, against all cliches, were open and airy--clusters of backalley poets and muscicians gathered, sharing bottles, matresses and soul.

For those who lived there, Seya Vil was more than just a sectioned off city zone. She was a spirit all her own, who loved and hissed like any woman worth her weight in gold.

For those who lived in New Vil, it was a slum.

New Vil had everything that Seya Vil lacked. Practical street layout, fuctioning traffic lights, looming skyscrapers, landscaped parks, air conditioning. When the powers that be had descended upon the long-forgotten Vil de Sel Rivaj they had the full intention of modernizing the entire city. Plans were drawn up and contractors hired and within the year construction had started.

Unfortunately for them, the longtime dwellers had put up a hard fight. In the end the two groups had reached a tentative compromise and so half of the city had embraced modernism, while the rest lingered on in a timeless haze; it had resulted in a curious division of population. Sleek cosmopolitans with their tiny cell phones and fast cars in New Vil, artists and the folk of old ways in Seya Vil. They kept to their own sides.

They could not always avoid each other, however. After all, there was only one mayor of the Vils and in order to assure majority votes, it was neccessary to take the campaign into foreign streets.

So it was that a small crowd had gathered on Rue Troub, surrounding a makeshift stage decorated with bold sashes. Strung across the street, one end attatched to End of the Street bar and the other to the Lucie Blue Cafe, was a large banner.


KERR FOR MAYOR!


Directly underneath it, all toothy grin, stood Danny Kerr. He was a broad-shouldered, incredibly goodlooking man with an easy air about him that attracted everyone, the female variety in particular. His tanned skin and mass of thick brown hair made him easy on the eyes, and his deep, slightly lilting voice drew the attention of said gaze. Danny had grown up in the city, and though he lived in New Vil his father had been Old Marlon Kerr, a Seya Vil legend; he was considered a shoe-in to win the election.

"I won't talk much, because I know in about a minute or two the ol' heat'll fry us all better than Maisy does her eggs." Danny was saying. He winked playfully at Maisy Contreu who ran a diner down the street. The woman blushed and waved her hand at him, as if to say go on you old cat. "Besides, I think my fiance is liable to kill me if I keep her delicate self out of doors all mornin'." Again the crowd laughed, given permission by Kerr to acknowlege the air of difference surrounding the woman.

Behind him, sitting stiffly on a fold-out chair, Maia Coltraine did not laugh. She didn't even crack a smile behind her large, designer sunglasses. The only reason the woman had come along was because it was important to the campaign that she show her support; people wanted to see a united front, Danny said. If it helped make her Ms. Mayor, Maia was willing to do it.

With her long legs tucked neatly behind a leg of the chair and her hair swept into a neat updo, Maia certainly looked the part of a New Vil resident. Strict campagne wardrobe instructions--black, navy blue, and the occasional pastel only--had dictated the creamy curve-hugging dress she wore. It was decent enough to cover the more important bits, but revealing enough to keep the eyes happy.

Maia yawned behind a hand, irritation evident in the whiteness of her knuckles that clutched at a small handbag. Danny was finishing his speech, from the sounds of clapping, and in a moment he was over and offering a hand. Maia accepted it with feigned graciousness and he guided her down the steps, whispering into her ear as they paused behind the collapsable stage. "Behave. I'm going to play the crowd, then we can leave."

Maia made a face. "Wash your hands after, I don't want to catch anything."

Danny squeezed her arm none too gently and then, plastering a wide grin on his face, walked around and began his meet-and-greet. Maia watched before muttering in disgust and crossing to stand in the shade that an overhanging balcony created, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lighting up.

It was really almost too much.

[Remy Everard]

No. It was too much. Entirely too much.

Across the narrow street in a second-story townhouse, the single resident of Rue Troub not out celebrating listened to the swell of the crowd below. His lip curled in black amusement. Bolting back another shot of whiskey, which burned worse than the midmorning sun on the pavement outside, he absently lipped the rim of his glass and sank farther into the half-shadows in the back corner of the office. He resembled nothing so much as a sullen bat. No lights were on, but there were no shutters or blinds on the large picture window facing the street, and despite the fact that it had been due for a cleaning well before the current tenant was born, it still let in enough light to hurt and plenty enough scenery of the political gore below.

Honestly. Streamers? And that ridiculous banner, parked on far more real estate than a piece of tarpaulin had any right to. Since when had the faded glory of matronly Seya Vil been prostituted out to politicos from the wrong side of the City? And since when had slimebags from New Vil cared about the citizens in the Old Town as anything more than scum on the bottoms of their designer shoes?

In that dingy little office overlooking the two hundred-year-old Rue Troub, a man too young to be so set in his ways unfolded himself from his red leather armchair--an antique like everything else in the place--and stood grudgingly. He set his glass down on the edge of his desk, next to yesterday's newspaper. Under half a dozen coffee mug rings was a front-page picture of Danny Kerr at a charity benefit. Tomorrow's newspaper would have a picture from today's rally, mostly Kerr's teeth.

Remy Everard made a mental note not to buy tomorrow's paper as he shuffled across the office toward the window.

He stood to one side so that he could not be seen and surveyed the grisly scene below. Looked like the rally was about over; Kerr seemed to be waving and cajoling as he simpered closing remarks. As Remy watched narrowly, the young politician smiled a last thousand-watt smile and turned to descend the stage, taking with him a cool-looking brunette in a cream-colored number that would've been spicy on anyone else. On her it was just cold.

Huh. That was interesting. As he "helped" her down the steps, Kerr didn't take the girl's hand or thread his arm through hers. He held her by the elbow. A parenting gesture. Authoritative. What made it interesting was that she didn't look the kind Remy would have pegged for submissive. Even from here he could see the cold disinterest--distaste--in her facial expression. And instead of hanging off Kerr as the snake went slithering amongst the troops, gladhanding, the woman went her separate way, down behind the platform, and lit a cigarette.

Remy knew who she was by reputation and what little media saturation he was unable to avoid (and, by God, he'd tried to avoid news of this election season), but he didn't know her name. He hadn't cared previously, and didn't much care now, but refusing to mingle and shmooze with her beloved Danny-boy made her...well, if not somehow refreshing, then at least morbidly interesting. She made no show of liking the part of town Remy knew she would rather forget existed. At least Kerr pretended to want to be here.

So far, he was doing a damn fine job of it. Somehow he'd managed, in the space of half a year, to con a disturbingly large portion of Seya's citizenry into following him like wide-eyed children following the music of a magical pipe. The crowd below Remy's apartment was much larger than he'd expected. Even larger than he'd feared. Remy felt bleak resignation congeal the whiskey sitting hard on his otherwise-empty stomach. There would be no contest in the election this year. Everyone knew it, and everyone knew that it would not have been possible had Kerr not so successfully courted the residents of the Old Town. Few in New Vil besides Kerr had seen the worth of bothering with a campaign in the old city. Their folly was revealed in an increasingly harsh light every day.

What Remy didn't understand was how it had happened. Okay, sure, Kerr came from old Seya Vil stock; so did Remy. And, at some point in their past, the two men's grandsires had had a falling out, and that's all there was to it. Remy's family had remained obstinately rooted in the Old Town, Remy taking over this office when his father grudingly retired, thirty years to the day from when he'd inherited it from his father, Remy's granddad. Time was, loyalty like that would have been counted in Remy's favor, while Kerr's prodigal flight to the gleaming towers of New Vil would have been seen for the treason it was.

Apparently, and much as Remy hated to acknowledge it, times had changed. Instead, Kerr was making out like Jean Valjean in the bishop's home, and Seya welcomed him as their own son. Meanwhile, Rue Troub was becoming an increasingly uncomfortable place for Remy Everard and his black cloud of political pessimism. He was seen as old-fashioned in an old-fashioned town, an "old-way thinker," a dissident. Dissident, when all he wanted was for nothing ever to change, for Seya to stay exactly as she'd always been, friendly and clannish and fundamentally old. She was all the town Remy had ever needed or wanted; as far as he was concerned, "town" stopped at the large wrought-iron gate at the end of Rue le Soir, after which it became Highway 19 and crossed the river into New Vil.

He wanted nothing more, now, than for Kerr to pack up and run back over the bridge and leave the violated remants of Old Vil's family to lick their collective wounds. And, he thought with an immediate and regretful stab of guilt, he wished all Kerr's Seya disciples would just go back with him and leave the Old Town in peace.

Remy came away from the window. Seeing it only made him angry. His eyes found a last glimpse of Kerr amongst the faded-looking Seya residents, standing out in his perfectly-tailored three-piece, his smile flashing like a glimpse of exposed bone in flesh.

It wasn't fair, Remy sulked, fully aware that he was sulking, nor was it right. But he felt helpless. And he hated that feeling more than anything else in the world.

[Maia Coltraine]

The temperature wasn't ripe for smoking, but she kept on with it out of irritation. With no one daring to approach her, Maia was left with the freedom to make her own investigation. There wasn't much to look at, honestly, but a brief movement upwards caught her eye. Behind the safety of her sunglasses, Maia studied the filthy--seriously, didn't anyone have a housekeeper?--window. For a moment there was nothing and Maia almost turned away, dismissing it to her imagination.

Again a brief movement, and she suddenly found herself looking at a scruffy figure. The fact that he was studying her with a gaze that couldn't be described in any other word but 'piercing' made her stomach flip-flop. Maia scowled and flipped her middle finger up at the man, who stared a moment longer before retreating into the rest of (what she was sure was) his dingy dive.

Danny returned, bearing a tall dusty-skinned man with him. He had a look about his eyes which was somewhere in between patronizing and authoritative. It was a look which meant he expected her to agree with him. It also usually meant that he was about to say something that she wouldn't like. "This is Mr. Moses Birchwood. He's been so kind as to ask us for lunch."

Maia didn't bother with even a thinly polite smile. Stony-faced she tossed her cigarette to the ground and stepped on it with the toe of her stiletto. "What a shame that we've other plans." Danny's nostrils flared but his grin never waved.

"Oh, nothing was set in stone." He gave her a significant look. Maia returned it with one that summed up the sentiments she'd shot to the creep upstairs moments ago. Smiling awkwardly, Moses rose his hands to protest, if only to excuse himself from the obviously warring couple. Danny didn't give him a chance. "Lead on, Mr. Birchwood. I could eat a horse." He took Maia's hand in a fearsome grip and with practiced false civilty followed the man into a tiny restaurant.

It was, Maia noted, directly below the window where the mangy man had been observing. And it was just as grungy. Grease stains from meals eaten by generations long ago stained the uneven wood tabletops, which had been unsuccesfully disguised with ragged red-checked cloths. At the centre of the table sat a fingerprint marked napkin dispenser and a small vase of wilting flowers. From the kitchen came the hissing crackle that told of frying food. In the heat the taste of oil was palpable; Maia held a hand to her mouth to stop from gagging.

They sat in creaky wooden chairs, the woman choosing to perch on the edge for fear of contracting some horribly common disease. There were no menus provided when the waitress came, but she did set down sweating glasses of ice water. Maia's lips pursed. "I want bottled."

"Sorry chere, we don't have." The waitress winked sunnily. "But that there's the sweetest water in th'world."

Sweetly filled with bacteria, no doubt. Maia pulled her sunglasses off and tossed them onto the tabletop. Danny's foot pressed on hers, and he smiled at their waitress. "You bet it is." He took a generous sip and smacked his lips. "This is fine, darlin'. Although I wouldn't protest to some of those famous crepes."

The effect was incredible. With a coy giggle the waitress nodded and then took down Moses' order, all the while looking at Danny who held her gaze. Her smile was slightly less congenial when she came to the lone female in the group. Maia returned the favour with an icy glare. "Nothing for me." If looks could kill, Danny Kerr would have been facing murder charges instead of impending mayorhood.

Moses cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, how do you like bein' back in Seya, Dan? You know me'n your daddy used to eat right here, every Sunday. This very place."

"Isn't that something?" Danny shook his head and chuckled, clapping a hand on Moses' forearm. "It's a treat, Mr. Birchwood, to be back in what I consider home."

She could have laughed. "Although Danny often makes late night trips, Mr. Birchwood." Two pairs of eyes looked at her, one curious and the other cautioning. She leaned forward and Moses mirrored her unconciously, so that they drew together like a pair of schoolchildren. Maia dropped her voice to a loud whisper. "He's got gentlemen friends, helping him on his campaign, that aren't... welcome in New Vil."

Moses' eyebrows rose and he looked at Kerr questioningly. Before he could voice a query, Maia laughed and drew back to her seat. "Oh I'm just being ornery. Danny would never do anything like that." A grin split Moses' face, and he wagged a scolding finger at her. In the scant seconds before Moses looked at him, Danny gave his fiance a chilling stare.

"She's got a very active imagination." Maia smiled.

Active imagination was just nice talk for lack of proof.

[Remy Everard]

The phone ringing in the office nearly made Remy choke on his toothbrush.

"Everard Private Detective Agency."

"You watchin' the news?"

"Dad?"

"God damn harias in our streets listening to that son of a--"

"I don't need to watch the news, Dad, they're right outside my window."

"They're on the Troub?" Remy could hear the vein popping in his father's over-flushed forehead. "Not that you can tell, got the whole place decked out with sackcloth and rags, can't even see the buildings."

"You should be here."

"Hmph. And good thing I'm not, or I'd have popped him through the window with my air rifle. God damn hippy."

Remy rubbed his face. "You doing alright, Papa? I mean, otherwise."

"Other than having my town gutted by wolves and my friends turned against my family? Life's peaches. You should come by soon. I found some of your things in the garage, your mother must've packed them in here when we moved."

"Um. Well, I mean, I'll be by as soon as I can, I promise. But I don't have a lot of room here; you're probably bettter off just dropping the stuff by the Salvation Army."

There was a pause. "I think you should come and get them, son. I'm sure your mom kept them for a reason."

Remy sighed, but quietly, not into the receiver. Swallowing, he nodded, as though his dad could see his concession through the telephone line.

"I'll be by tomorrow, maybe. Tuesday at the latest. You hankering for any dinner in particular? I'll treat ya."

A dismissive grunt that almost hid the gratitude. "You just show up. I'll take that over the greasy hamburgers you subsist on."

Remy grinned. "Love you too, Dad."

"Behave yourself."

"Bye, Dad."

Remy sighed as he returned the faded brass receiver to its hook. The phone was rotary, and older than Remy, and he had what was probably an unnatural attachment to it.

Glancing down at himself to make sure he was wearing pants--yesterday's jeans, he'd never taken them off to sleep--Remy took the thin button-up hanging on the office doorknob and slipped it on. It stuck to his bare arms; he left it open over his beater. The shirt was missing several buttons, anyway.

He slipped barefoot into his old sneakers and went up through the narrow hallway that ran the length of his apartment. The front door opened directly on the stairs to the diner below, and Remy thunked down them. Hunger gnawed his stomach. He hadn't eaten at all yesterday. He wasn't thrilled about going downstairs now, closer to the remains of the rally, but it had been almost a half hour since it finished and Remy's fridge was empty, and management gave him a discount to eat downstairs.

The back stairs came out in the kitchen. The head cook, Andouille, waved a spatula at him in greeting.

"Remy-y-y-y, what'll it be this morning, mec?"

"Oh, Andy, some ham and eggs, just like I like 'em, son."

Andy saluted. "You got it."

Remy patted the teenage dishwasher, a well-pierced, big-hearted kid, on the shoulder as he walked by, through the swinging salon doors into the cafe.

"Remy, I notice you weren't out there at the rally," Clarisse, the matron of the diner, chided almost before he was even in earshot.

"Slept late, chere," he answered without missing a beat, dropping a polite kiss on her upturned cheek. She still looked stormy, but jerked her chin to an empty space at the bar.

"I'll get you a cafe, sit tight."

Clarisse went to deliver her precariously-balanced plates. As she moved off, Remy almost immediately felt an upleasant twinge in his ear as a too-bright voice reached it.

"Mon dieu," he muttered, half turning and catching a glimpse of cream-colored dress out of the corner of his eye.

God. Not his day. He didn't lose his appetite, but he did wish he was anywhere else in Seya Vil.

[Maia Coltraine]

The conversation had drifted to old topics, nostalgic musings that Danny and Moses tossed back and forth as they shoveled food generously into their mouths. There was nothing interesting about Delphine Capps running off with Bobby Derneville, but the way her fiance shook his head and tutted one would have thought it was front-page news.

"Her husband must be devestated; how many kids did they have?" His face a perfect mask of despair, Danny forked a massive chunk of honey-soaked crepe into his mouth. Moses raised one elegent finger in pausing as he chewed a bite of sausage.

"Four; three boys and a sweet lil' tifi, barely outta diapers. Oldest isn't more'n eight or nine." He shook his head, smiling through a mouthful of egg as Clarisse came to refill the coffee mugs. Picking up on the tail end of the conversation, the woman harrumphed irritably.

"You boys got no place talkin' bout that pitit. Ain't our business what went on in that house." She cast a scolding look at them, pursing her lips tightly as she topped off their mugs. Lifting her nose in the air, Clarisse spun smartly to go, casting loftily over her shoulder, "But if you want the truth of it, Emile Capps wasn't any sort of gentleman."

God, the folksiness of it all was enough to drive a person up the wall. Maia tapped her fingers on the tabletop, aggravation seeping out of her manicured fingernails. Out of sheer boredom she pulled out another smoke and her lighter. The first inhale was a relief, it's familiar pull a reminder of tiled floors and sleek wall treatments.

Moses Birchwood winced. "Ah, Miss Coltraine, I don't mean to be a bother but," He rubbed at his chest and gave her a sympathetic look. "I have old man lungs who can't take the second-hand."

"She'll put it out, Moses, of course." It was a wonder that Danny's face didn't start hurting from all the placating grins.

Rising swiftly, Maia directed a withering stare his way. "She'll go to the bar. Excuse me."

Heels clicking frightfully on the floor, the woman angled over to the bar where she was cheerfully ignored by a humming Clarisse. Well, tit for tat then; Maia didn't so much as glance at the other woman, focusing her crackling eyes on...

Hell. That creep from upstairs. He looked even grungier upon closer inspection, with sweat plastering a thin, dirty button-down against his skin. Hair that needed washing, a face that needed shaving; the man even had the rumpled jeans and bunched tank. Maia leaned slightly to get a better gaze of his empty neck; what a pity, she'd half-expected a gold cross.

There was certainly no intention of speaking to him, but when he looked directly at her (again that same flip-flop, like she was naked) it wasn't with friendly features. In fact, he looked so absolutely put-out that Maia felt herself bristling immediately. The woman took a step forward, tapping ash onto the countertop.

"So what are you then, the local Peeping Tom?" She sized him up coldly. "God, I hope you're not one of those pedophile cretins that slum around down here."

[Remy Everard]

It took a massive effort not to pick up the nearest sugar dispenser and fling it into that sneering face. Remy had a bad temper, legendary, even; behind the bar, Clarisse blinked in shock and darted a look askance to Remy, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

But Remy surprised even himself. He had a terrible temper, but he was also a gentleman, even to cold-hearted, slime-voiced she-devils like Danny Kerr's betrothed.

He gave her a leer.

"Well, if I am, honey, you're way on past my...preferred age range." A gentleman, but not an idiot. His voice was polite, anyway. "C'n I buy you a cup of coffee, chere? You look like you could use it." Not waiting for an answer, he reached over and uprighted the unused mug in front of the she-devil.

"Clarisse, get the young lady a coffee. Show 'er some of our renowned hospitality."

[Maia Coltraine]

Lo and behold, a miracle: she smiled.

Granted it was the hungry smile of a hunter close to prey, but it was the first time that day the woman had bared her teeth in anything less than a fierce snarl. She was almost tempted to perch on a barstool; almost, but a terrible looking sheen on the painted top stopped her.

Clarisse nudged the steaming mug closer to her with a distasteful sniff, before turning abruptly and waltzing into the kitchen. Maia would have bet money that the matron was spying.

Leaving the coffee where it sat, she quirked a precisely shaped eyebrow. "I'm sorry, do my big city ways offend you?" Maia blew a lazy stream of smoke his way. Sharp eyes darted to the swinging kitchen door momentarily. "Maybe Clarisse there can give me lessons in backwood etiquette."

She was prodding him intentionally. Under all that grime was a face that was unexpectedly stirring when provoked.

[Remy Everard]

"Oh, no, honey, you don't need any help with that. You're already a pro."

Remy breathed deep of the halo of smoke Maia breathed into his face. He loved the smell of second-hand smoke and wished powerfully every time he smelled it that he hadn't quit.

Clarisse came back by only to push Remy's plate unceremoniously toward him and drop another acid glance on Danny's girl--what was her name? Remy was trying to remember, despite the fact that he didn't really want to know. He took a bite of eggs instead.

"I see Daddy brought you down to the old stompin' grounds," he said, jerking his head back at Danny. Any minute now the skeez would notice the strange man talking to his fiancee, and after that it would only take about a second and a half for him to realize who the strange man was. After that the fun and games would be over and it would turn to eye-gouging. Remy sipped his coffee.

"He hopin' you c'n charm us yokels with your myriad--" He let his eyes sweep over her thoroughly, acting out a leer even though his features displayed utter disgust. "--Talents?"

[Maia Coltraine]

Maia posed so that her breasts and curves were displayed at their most impressive angles for his survey. This sort of thing always brought a thrill with it, sharp-worded wars in which she was almost always gaurenteed to win because of she was, after all, a woman. If she hadn't been enjoying herself before, she certainly was amused now; maybe Seya Vil wasn't a complete write-off, after all.

The rugged man before her looked as though he were good to go a few rounds. He even managed to look as though he wasn't all that impressed with her. Maia found it all the more enticing. A wicked glint in her eyes sparkled as she returned the favour, casting bedroom eyes up and down the length of his body. There was no disgust on her delicate face; Maia was partial to haughty condescension.

"Something like that." It was dissapointing that he hadn't taken offense at her cigarette, or else she'd have blown more wisp his way. Not a hair came out of place as she bent forward slightly, the low v-neck on her dress doing mighty things for her figure. "Consider this a preview of sorts.

"Danny," Maia flicked ice blue eyes at her fiance, who hadn't yet made his first check on her, "Is going to bring some class to Seya Vil once he's mayor. Clean up the riff-raff and make it worth something."

The mug of coffee was starting to cool, and it's natural oils were rising to the surface. She dropped some ash into it, disturbing the placid top. "Maybe he ought to start right here. Seems to have more than it's fair share of dregs."

[Remy Everard]

Remy was a willful man. In pretty much every sense of the word. And he took quite a hefty pride in his imperturbable willpower; when he set out to do a thing, by God, he'd do it, and angels save the man who got in his way.

But Remy was only just a man himself, and his herculean will did not remove from him man's failings. Like the utter human incapability of keeping one's eyes from traveling the length of the sweet line plunging down this beauty's dress. Or noting the exact shade of her frosty eyes, rimmed in impossibly thick lashes. Or admiring curves of hair that melded seamlessly into curves of limb and body, all the way down along calf and foot, like some titillating work of classical art. She was the most enticing creature to set foot in this diner, and possibly the whole of the Troub, in Remy's memory.

Still, she didn't belong there, and it was this knowledge that, ultimately, reinforced Remy's teetering will, shoring up his resolve. He turned his eyes back up to hers, defiant granite-colored eyes that missed little. Let her take what pleasure she would in knowing she'd caught his eye. She could get that from any (and, likely, every) man in Seya. But the leers were worth nothing when loathing came after.

"Y'know what, honey? You're right. This little town is dirty, and old, and rundown, this rue more than most. It's a town of stragglers and layabouts, old men and their memories. And y'know what?" He fixed her with more harshness than he intended. Behind the counter, Clarisse stilled and gripped the coffee carafe tighter. "I love it. It's filled with dreams and good times. No, it's not super-sleek modernity, with its cool lines and tight angles and sepulchral sterility. Seya's got her quirks, her odd bends and twists, houses that lean and streets that don't really go anywhere, particularly. It's a town of people, not units, which is something you and your beloved Danny and his armies of minions will never really understand. It's my town, chere, and whatever you bloodsuckers end up doing to her, she'll always be my town."

Taking a long, hard draught, Remy downed the rest of his coffee, now blazingly angry, then slammed the mug down on the counter and rose to leave. The whole bar had gone tense and silent.

[Maia Coltraine]

It was an elegant speech. The sort that smaller men hired others to write for them, and still others to coach even an iota of the crackling emotion with which Remy had just delivered it. There was more than mere anger in the man's eyes; there was a possesive protection burning in the stormy hue of his irises.

Maia scarcely dared to breath, much less speak. Men never spoke to her like that; they charmed, they flirted, they chided on occasion; her fiance could sometimes be goaded into something resembling fury. But they never, ever, approached her with the incensed beration that had just been hurled forth.

For the first time in her life, Maia Coltraine was speechless.

Danny Kerr was not. He rose from his seat, swiftly shuttling towards Maia and Remy with tangible intent. The draw of his shoulders through the navy blazer signalled his fury. Danny stepped in front of his fiance, placing a hand tightly around her forearm in claim.

"What in the hell is going on here?" His voice was lowered to an angry hiss. It was unclear whether the question was directed at Maia or at Remy, but when his eyes landed upon the other male in sudden recognition, there was no doubt where the target lay. "You don't talk to my wife that way, Everard. Not while I'm around."

It was no secret that the Kerr's and the Everard's didn't get along. There was plenty of blood between them, and none of it friendly. Clandestine disputes had eased somewhat with the relocation of Joseph Kerr, Danny's grandfather, from Seya to the then-under-construction New Vil; but the fire still stoked ancient grudge hotly, and by all appearances new mutiny was set to break in the diner.

"Apologize to her." Danny growled. "Now."

[Remy Everard]

Remy smiled like an unsheathed, illegal weapon. And he meant every tooth.

"'Lo, Kerr. Campaign going well? So this lovely lady with whom I've just had the pleasure of verbally sparring is your...wife, now, is she?" Remy narrowed his eyes just a little, glancing over at the girl and back again. "Funny. Must be making wedding bands invisible in New Vil these days. You haven't introduced me to your sweet intended."

Remy backed off a pace. He didn't want to make a scene. Well, alright, there was actually nothing he'd like more than to make a scene, since he knew damn well he could take Danny Kerr like a bruiser breaking in a new cellmate. But Remy was impulsive, not ignorant, and the temperature in the diner was decidedly too chilled to make any attempt on Kerr in present company. It would wait.

"I do apologize if there was any misunderstanding. I was just acquainting your girl with life here in Seya Vil, since I knew you'd probably been remiss in recounting the good old days of your youth here." Remy raised his voice a touch, not glancing around the diner. He didn't need to. "Seems instead you've been filling her head with all sorts of ideas about cleaning out our beloved town, reforming it in New Vil's image. But I know you can't be meaning it."

[Maia Coltraine]

They were squared off like a pair of wolves, toeing an invisible dividing line between territories. Danny matched every one of Everard's movements, subtle as they were, although the effect wasn't quite the same on his weekly-microdermabrased face. Too refined on the soft features.

Folk were whispering now, little worries and startled questions flitting across the tabletops. This was the first they'd heard about any real changes for Seya Vil. Promises, sure, there'd been plenty of promises about fixin' up the most beat-down buildings and restoring the main square to it's previous glory. But those were just the glitter and sprinkles of a politician, and one who otherwise seemed like the sort of down home boy that the people of Seya wouldn't mind going into office. There'd been no indication that the metallic travesty of New Vil was going to migrate past it's gated entrance.

Though now that they thought on Remy's sly accusation, it seemed like just the sort of thing those New Vil dogs would do.

Danny appeared ready to haul off and deck Remy; he was not a man known for his self-control. Recognizing the tightening of the jaw, Maia leaned into him, pressing her lips against his ear. "Remember what we're working for." She whispered as she twisted her arm out of his grip.

The effect was near immediate. Kerr's shoulders dropped and a tense smile spread across his face. "Why, Remy, I'm injured that you could even think me capable of such a thing. I love Seya, just the way she is."

Danny smiled winningly at the patrons, his voice as soothing as a father's to a child. "Now I may live in New Vil - makes no sense not to, what with my business being there and city hall - but I know just as well as the next man that there wouldn't be a New Vil without a Seya. You got to have the old to create the new."

Nods began to form at the tables.

"And I'd no sooner change Seya than I would marr the Mona Lisa. In fact, I think New Vil'd be better off taking some cues from the old girl." It was the wink that sealed the deal. Relieved laughter danced through the dining hall, and a bright flash illuminated Danny, Maia, and Remy as a photographer snagged a photo.

Again taking hold of Maia's arm, Danny turned the grin back on Remy. "If Maia gave you any trouble I apologize; she's got low blood sugar, get's feisty if she doesn't eat."

Maia's glare could have burned a hole through Kerr's head. Still, she let herself be guided back to their table, where Moses was already standing and ready to go. They exited the diner, Danny making sure to smile and nod at each person within as they did so.

Moses bid them farewell and shuffled down the street to McCreadies for a drink. With a flick of his fingers, Danny motioned for their entourage to get a move on and their sleek black Audi started with nary a rumble. Before she could get in, Maia was suddenly jerked back and shoved against the side of the car. Her face was stony in contrast to the emblazoned one that resided mere inches from hers.

"You don't ever humiliate me like that again." Danny pushed her against the car a little harder. "I want this election, Maia, and if you get in my way, so help me-"

A furious shove was all it took to get rid of his hold on her. Maia sneered. "Get your hands off me. You don't need any help humiliating yourself Danny, you do a fine job all on your own." In a flurry of hair and glower, Maia slipped into the car and slammed the door.

Sensing they were still under scrutiny, Danny strode to the other side and, with as much dignity as he could muster, got in. The car took off smoothly in the direction of New Vil's shiny gates, leaving a cloud of dust behind it.