Liar. Thief. Grifter. He knew how to do this, exchange a life in ruins around him for something else he could fit over his skin.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
In New Orleans, he was known as Remy LeBeau, but what was that but a lie he’d lived until it became the truth? He stole himself a future when he’d tried to pickpocket the king of thieves, and now it had crumbled into ash around him on his wedding day.
Ringing, ringing while he patiently waited and shuffled his cards.
Husband. Prince. Exile. Fingers itching for the pinch. Pick a lie he could live until it became his own—a truth spun with that living.
The line picked up. “Hello?” asked a woman’s voice. Ororo Munroe.
He put on the mischievous grin he knew she could hear. “Stormy, ma chère!”
“Don’t call me that.” But she was laughing at the hated nickname. “I hadn’t heard from you lately.”
They had met as kids, pickpocketed together in Cairo as though they were friends. Live that lie long enough…
“Was wondering if y’ had room f’ anot’er body.” Hero. X-Men. Good guy.
“For you, Remy,” Storm replied, voice warm, “always.”