It was sacrilegious, what Remy was about to do. He knew it, even as he slipped out of the confessional booth, the only part of his face visible the black and red eyes. His dreads were pressed down by his cowl, hands covered by black leather gloves. There was no visible sign that this was the Black Devil of New Orleans, not that anyone here should know who that was. No, Remy was on the wrong side of the ocean for his reputation to proceed him. He liked it that way.
He stuck to the shadows of the pillars as he made sure the church was empty. There were no devout old women praying over their rosaries, no desperate men lighting candles. The air in the church was filled with the smell of incense, myrrh and something else that Remy couldn't name. There were no sounds of anyone else even breathing, and Remy felt himself relax just a little, stepping out of the shadow of one pillar to another one.
There was a painting here, in this German cathedral, that he was after, the Madonna of the Rose Bower. He'd been hired to retrieve it by someone with more money than brains and he'd had no problem accepting the job. The painting was beautiful, and Remy loved beautiful things. More than he loved money, but beautiful art couldn't keep him fed, and he had some small need for food. Thus, stealing from a church in the dead of night.
He had scoped out the church from the outside during the day, but he hadn't dared slip in until evening mass, when he could blend in with the crowds. Not easily, being tall and black, but a religious man was a religious man, and he knew how to make all the right moves, to fool people into thinking that he was just as devout as they were. He'd been doing it to his papa for years, after all. Remy was a chameleon. He fit in where he needed to, so long as no one looked at his eyes. Thankfully, Catholics in prayer did not much make eye contact.
Remy found his way to the alcove where the painting was, stopping in front of it. It was beautiful, 15th century, oil on canvas. Given a few hours, Remy could probably produce a fair imitation of it, but he didn't have a few hours to do so. He had to get the painting and get out. He carefully pulled out a knife, lifting it to the canvas.
"I am sorry," he apologized to the painting, "mais, Remy gotta eat," he laid his knife to the edge of the painting, but stopped when he heard a noise in the cathedral. The knife disappeared up his sleeve as he stepped back. He carefully concealed himself again, looking around. He hadn't seen anyone, but that meant nothing. There was someone else in the room with him and Remy could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
He quickly made to look as if he was praying, hands folded in front of him, as his eyes tracked around the room, watching the shadows. Something moved to his left and he turned in that direction.
