I sabella DeMarco was moaning in her sleep. Her fists clenched her pale blue sheets; tears and sweat trickled down her forehead as she rolled her head against her pillow.

Hustle it up, a voice urgently whispered to her. They’re dogging you!

Izzy raced through the nightmare forest, a terrifying landscape of fleshy black trees garroted with hangman’s necklaces of Spanish moss. A fiery moon blazed overhead, casting flickering shadows over rotting ferns and a matted bunting of ashy gray leaves.

Her surroundings heaved with menace and danger. The surface of a blood-colored swamp roiled as shapes glided toward the boggy earth where she ran. She saw it all with a strange clarity, as if part of her was a camera recording every moment instead of a young woman in flight for her life.

She heard herself panting in counterpoint with her over-cranked heartbeat. Her footfalls ricocheted like shell casings pinging off a tile floor. Heat seared her lungs and her ankles ached from running too long and too hard. Then the screaming of night birds swallowed up the sounds.

The voice echoed all around her. If you don’t move it, it’s all over. They’ll die, too. You’re on point.

Then everything shifted and the panting was inside her head, echoing in her temples. The monsters that lived in the forest were after her. They were always after her. They hunted her, night after night. She ran, night after night. She could not stop. She must not stop.

Deep in Izzy DeMarco’s soul, she knew that if they caught her, she would die.

And die horribly.

She tried to remind herself it was only a dream. But it wasn’t, not when she was in it. It was all so very real. Her gauzy white nightgown molded to her body as she raced barefoot over sharp rocks that sliced the soles of her feet. Slimy, shredding vines tumbled from twisted canopies of dank, dripping leaves. Skeletal branches yanked painfully at the untamed corkscrews of her sable-black hair.

As she raced past a gnarled live oak, four huge gashes in the bark warned her that they had been here first, crisscrossing the forest, searching for her. They were always hunting for her.

But they had never found her.

Not yet. Don’t get cocky.

Refracting the beam of the burning moon’s light, her mother’s gold filigree crucifix flashed between her breasts. She put a hand over it to hide the gleam in case it might give her away.

A wind whipped up, twisting her nightgown around her knees. Branches slapped her arms and face; wincing, she pushed them away and tried to move on. Then the hem of her gown caught on something behind her, drawing her up short.

A wolf howled, its wail piercing the fierce rush of the wind. It was joined by another. And another…until the forest rang with eerie, inhuman cries.

Get out of here!

About fifteen feet to her right, a shadow glided through the darkness. The crazed whooping rose to a shrill shriek. The trees and vines jittered in a frenzy. Clouds raced across the moon, slicing the bloody sphere in two, fog spilling out like clots.

They’re coming!

She tugged wildly at the nightgown. It wouldn’t give. She tried to run, was held fast. The fabric had tangled around a tree root that looked like a gnarled hand, gripping the ruffled hem so that she couldn’t get away.

When she grabbed the nearest piece of the root, it curled upward as it tried to capture her hand.

Isabella yanked back her arm in horror. The root slithered back to rejoin the main section, which was still holding on to her nightgown.

The forest is alive.

It wants to kill you.

She pulled again, and again, but it was no use.

Then she reached up to her shoulders and gathered up the gauze around the sweetheart neckline. She jerked her hands toward her shoulders, trying to tear down the front so she could strip the gown off and get away. Try as she might, it would not rip.

She balled her fist and brought it down on the finger-like root.

Another howl echoed through the forest, bold and feral and eager. Ice-water chills skittered up her spine; she looked frantically around and—

Get out of here! the nightmare voice commanded.

That was when the gun went off.

 

Izzy gasped and sat upright in bed, gasping for air.

Sweat trickled between her breasts and ran down her cheeks like tears. She wiped it away with a clammy hand and blotted her palm on her sheet, which was wrapped around her body like a shroud.

“Just a dream, just a dream,” she chanted, her heart beating so fast it was out of rhythm. She pressed her hand against her chest, feeling the damp ivory satin ties of her nightgown against her fingertips. Touching reality.

“Where are you? In your room. In your home. You’re fine,” she said out loud, a technique she had learned to quell her night terrors.

She forced herself to take a deep breath in, a deep breath out, looking for her center, finding the calm place where the monsters could not go.

It was increasingly difficult to go there.

Because it wasn’t just a dream. It was the dream. The blood-red moon, the swamp, the root that grabbed at her and the whispering—that insinuating, sandpapery voice—Izzy had been having the same dream ever since her mother, Anna Maria DeMarco, had died of a lingering, undiagnosable illness ten years before. Today was the tenth anniversary of her death. Izzy had been sixteen then. She was twenty-six now. For ten years, shrieking creatures had hunted her half a dozen times each year. For seventy nights or more, she had outrun them.

What if, one night, they caught her?

“Don’t go there,” she ordered herself. Forcing her body to stand down, she rolled her shoulders forward, made herself slump and lower her head. It was a submissive posture, a surrender, and it frightened her to perform it, even in the safety of her bedroom.

She was still on high alert. Her body was flooded with adrenaline. She glanced over at her clock. It was three in the morning. Nevertheless, she was half tempted to dress and go for a jog.

Dr. Sonnenfeld, the shrink she had finally agreed to see seven years ago, said a recurring nightmare was caused by unresolved issues. In Izzy’s case, the obvious trigger was her mother’s death.

Izzy fully accepted that she had been angry with Anna Maria for dying. It also made sense that she was trying to flee the pressures of her role in the family. She didn’t need a stranger to point out that the dream had started the day after her mother’s funeral, coinciding with the fact that her father had held her close and whispered brokenly, “You’re the lady of the house, now, honey. You need to look after Gino.”

And look after her father, too. He hadn’t said it, but she knew that was what he was hoping for. Izzy had taken to calling him “Big Vince” when she was five—everyone called him that—and maybe there was a reason she didn’t call him “Pa” the way Gino did. Her father was an excellent cop, but he was the kind of man who needed a female family member to look after him. Before his marriage, that woman had been his sister, Izzy’s aunt Clara. Then Ma.

By the time of her mother’s death, it had been Izzy. At sixteen, she had already been doing all the housework and cooking for years. Gino was supposed to help, but her parents had never enforced that, and she couldn’t make him. Frankly, it didn’t leave a lot of time for being the “lady” of the house. Despite the urgings of her schoolmates and their moms to develop some fashion sense and cultivate a little style, she had found it necessary to skip over a lot of the detail work of growing up. Makeup, hairstyles—maybe later, after Ma got better.

But Ma didn’t get better.

The death had made it official—as if the closing of the coffin lid over her mother’s tired but still lovely face had also signaled the end of Izzy’s girlhood, such as it had been.

The dream had begun then. But Dr. Sonnenfeld kept prodding her to come up with something more than what she told him, some deeper problem between mother and daughter.

“The fact that no one could figure out why she was so sick, for example,” he’d suggested. “You feel menaced by unseen shadows. They’re chasing you, trying to kill you as they killed your mother.”

“Okay. So now what?” she had challenged him.

“So we keep talking,” he’d replied.

It did no good, did not stop the dreams. Izzy thought he was crazy and, besides, her insurance would only cover a finite number of sessions. Also, he took a lot of calls during her sessions and one time asked her if she was seeing anyone special.

Her father had approved of her decision to stop seeing him.

“We’re Catholics,” he told her, making a fist with his big, beefy hand and waving it at the crucifix on the living room wall. “Talk to our priest.”

Only at that point, they were lapsed Catholics at best. They had stayed lapsed until her little brother, Gino, had been accepted by Holy Apostles Seminary in New Haven, Connecticut. After that, Big Vince had taken to attending Mass on Saturday nights or Sunday mornings if possible, as well as two or three mornings of his workweek—a schedule that varied all over the place since he was a patrol officer. Izzy often accompanied him to Mass, but she had never talked to Father Raymond about her dream. She was a very private person.

Taking another breath, Izzy unwound the damp sheet from around herself. Her hands were still trembling.

I wonder what this is doing to my life span.

She stepped into her slippers and walked to the window, pulled back the dark blue curtains and stared out onto the familiar, snow-covered street. Her parents had moved into this row house on India Street when she was three months old. Though her life had changed drastically since then, the old Brooklyn neighborhood had not. The old twin Norway maple trees still guarded the entrance to the pocket park, magical in their dustings of frosty-white.

Beside the park stood Mr. Fantone’s old one-story cobbler shop with its pitted brick exterior and grimy storefront window of multiple panes crisscrossed with security bars. The neon sign in the window had been missing the “e” in “Shoe” for so long that people had nicknamed it the “sho-nuff store,” all the more humorous for their nasal Brooklyn accents imitating a Southern drawl.

Russo’s abutted Fantone’s, the Italian deli owned by the DeMarcos’ next-door neighbors. Her little brother Gino had worked at Russo’s during high school part-time to pay for college. She still shopped there, and all she had to do now was to close her eyes and she could smell the garlic and dried cod, mortadella and hard salami.

The Russo family brought over a lot of “excess inventory”—cold cuts about to go past the sale date—for the cop and his kid. Izzy took them, but Big Vince cautioned her. They had to be careful not to let the Russos presume. “One day a guy is giving you free coffee, the next day he wants you to ignore that he double-parked in the alley. And the day after that, he’s asking you to help him with a little scrape his nephew’s gotten himself into….”

You’re fine. Everything’s fine, she thought as she watched snowflakes drift across the windowpane.

To her right, on her bureau, the little votive candle at the feet of her mother’s statue of the Virgin Mary had burned out hours ago; but the light from the street cast a gleam on the frosted glass that made it appear to burn. It comforted her. Its warmth reminded her that Gino had blessed their home tonight. He was asleep in his old room; he’d stayed over an extra night from his weekend visit home so they could go to Mass together tomorrow morning. Surely God watched over His own.

It was chilly in the silent room; she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms as she grabbed up her pink chenille bathrobe and slid her arms through the sleeves. An embroidered French poodle sporting a pompadour of turquoise rabbit-fur “hair” beneath a black-velvet beret trotted along the hem. The robe was nothing she would have ever purchased, but her nine-year-old cousin Clarissa had given it to her last Christmas. For that reason alone she treasured it.

Izzy loved her big, noisy Italian family.

Smiling faintly, she opened her door and headed for the bathroom. As she moved into the hallway, her father’s door opened at the opposite end. He poked his head out; in the darkness, it looked like a floating white balloon.

“Iz?” he said. “You okay, honey?”

“I’m fine, Big Vince.” She gave him a wave. “Just need a drink of water.”

“I thought I heard you talking.” He paused. “You talking in your sleep again?”

She made a face that he probably couldn’t see, a combination of a wince and an apologetic frown.

“Did I wake you up?” she asked.

“Nah. I was already awake. I’m just restless tonight. A little agita. Heartburn.” He chuckled. “Maybe it’s your rigatoni.”

“I make fabulous rigatoni!” she protested, putting her hands on her hips and facing him squarely. “The best…okay, second best you ever ate! You know I got Ma’s cooking genes. And her rigatoni recipe.”

“Then it has to be the garlic bread,” he said decisively. “Gino made that.”

They shared a laugh. For all his having worked in Russo’s Deli, Gino was famous for his pitiful ineptitude in the kitchen. He couldn’t even successfully microwave a frozen entrée.

Her father added, “Let’s hope he serves Mass better than he serves dinner.”

It was an old joke, but it felt good to hear it. Her crazy bathrobe, her father and his gentle ribbing—she was beginning to feel reconnected with the real world. It always took her a little while to lose the feeling that the nightmare forest was real, too. She would often awaken very disoriented and confused, and check her body and feet for cuts and bruises. Tonight she could almost still feel the slap of the branches against her cheeks and hear the voice whispering in her head.

“It’s late,” she said gently. “Go back to bed.”

The job was taking a toll on him. Sore knees, flat feet, the light in his eyes a little dimmer. He was starting to talk about taking early retirement. It was hard to accept. Her father had always been a burly, noisy, old-style Italian male, heavy on the machismo, even though he was proud of his “little baby girl” for her holding her own in a man’s world—Izzy worked for the NYPD, too, although in an administrative support capacity, and as a civilian.

But there was no denying that Vincenzo “Big Vince” DeMarco was slowing down. The muscles were slackening; his helmet of black hair was shot with silver. There were wrinkles. There was a little less opera in the shower.

“Yeah, well, whatcha gonna do?” he murmured, which was what he said whenever he wasn’t certain what to say next. Izzy took it as her signal to go on into the bathroom.

“Mass in the morning,” he reminded her, as if she could forget.

“Of course,” she replied.

“Good night, bella mia,” he replied.

“Buona serata,” she answered.

His door closed.

She clicked the light switch as she went into the bathroom, papered with Ma’s vivid roses and ivy trellises. Rose-colored towels hung on ornate brass towel racks. A filigree cross twined with brass roses hung on the wall beside the turned oak medicine cabinet. Everything about her mother had been graceful, soft and feminine.

Izzy was nothing like that. Izzy was about traveling light and getting it done. No frills, no frou-frou, no time for bubble baths and very little time for herself. Not that she was complaining. It was what it was.

Leaning forward, she scrutinized herself in the mirror. She didn’t know what she expected to see. She looked the same as she ever did. There was the wild tangle of ridiculously thick black curls, the kind of hair women gushed over and said they wished they had—because they had no idea how hard it was to so much as run a brush through it, much less style it in any way besides a ponytail or wrapped with a gigantic clip.

There were the large brown eyes, a little puffy from lack of sleep, with the same gold flecks in them; and lashes that were so thick some people thought she wore false eyelashes. The small, straight nose dotted over the bridge with freckles, which neither of her parents had. Ditto the lush mouth—Ma and Big Vince had thinner lips and fuller jaws. As did Gino. Everyone called her the family oddball, made jokes about the milkman. Be that as it may, her appearance this early January morning was as it should be.

Izzy took a ragged breath. Still looking at her reflection, she turned on the water and let it run a minute. It was chilly in the bathroom; she rubbed her arms and yawned, moving her shoulders.

She tested the water; it was warm now. She began to lower her head to splash water on her face.

She stopped.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Fresh goose bumps sprouted along her arms and chest.

She had the strangest sensation that someone was watching her. She could feel it, like a piece of wet velvet sliding across the nape of her neck. She imagined a police flashlight clicking on, traveling up and down the walls of the bathroom, the ceiling, the floor…

…looking for her.

And if she looked into the mirror, she would see—

“Nothing,” she said sharply, doing just that. Lifting her head and staring directly into the glass. Her own reflection stared directly back.

Huffing at her own melodrama, she turned off the water and left the bathroom.

She padded back into her room, shut the door, took off her slippers and got back into bed.

And Isabella Celestina DeMarco did not sleep for the rest of the night.

M ass.

Gino and Big Vince flanked Izzy as the three knelt and prayed in the front pew of St. Theresa’s. Beneath his heavy blue-black jacket, her father wore his NYPD uniform. She smelled his Old Spice. On her left, Gino was a handsome chick magnet in street attire: gray sweater, coat, black cords. His hair was still damp from a shower, droplets clinging to his straight, dark brown hair. She wondered how the celibacy thing was going for him. She wasn’t so fond of it, herself.

Ah, well, whatcha gonna do?

Izzy had on work clothes: black wool trousers, a gray turtleneck sweater and a black jacket. Her black leather gloves were stuffed in her jacket pocket. New York at this time of year was dark clothes and darker skies. Izzy knew she looked pale, with deep smudges under her eyes. Her father and brother both had said something about her appearance, fretting over her as they’d walked three abreast through the snow to the church.

There was one other parishioner, an elderly lady sitting six pews back, all alone. Izzy had seen her a few times before. Daily morning Mass was always sparsely attended; Catholics were just as stressed out and overscheduled as anybody, trying to make a living and get the kids to soccer. Even Mass on Saturday night or Sunday morning was hard to fit in—the congregation had been steadily dwindling for years, with few new parishioners—newcomers to the neighborhood, babies—filling the pews.

It was six-thirty in the morning and chilly in St. Theresa’s, the little stone parish church three blocks from their row house, on Refugio Avenue. The lacquered pews smelled of lemon oil and the dim room flickered with light from four clear-glass votives among the three dozen or so unlit ones arranged before the statue of the Virgin. The DeMarco family had lit three of them.

It was the time in the Mass for the Prayers of the Faithful, when parishioners could petition for prayers for their special needs and concerns. Izzy cleared her throat and said, “For the repose of my mother’s soul, Anna Maria DeMarco, I pray to the Lord.”

All present responded, “Lord, hear our prayer.”

Ma, I miss you, Izzy thought, as her father sighed.

Then something shifted in the frosty air. The room sank into a deep gloom; the light from the leaded-glass windows angled in like the dull sheen of gunmetal. As she gazed upward, the arched stone ceiling seemed to sink. The sweet, young face of the Virgin became blurry and hard to see, and the votive candles at her feet flickered as if viewed through murky water.

Izzy glanced left, right, behind herself, trying to figure out what was creating the disorienting effect.

The other worshippers seemed not to notice that anything had happened. The priest continued with the Mass. In the back of the church, the elderly woman’s head was bowed in prayer. Gino and Big Vince were praying, as well.

“Izzy?” Big Vince whispered as she shifted again. He opened his eyes and gazed at her.

Maybe it was her mood. Her spirits were low and she hadn’t slept.

She shook her head and placed her hand over his to reassure him that nothing was wrong. Her mother’s black-onyx rosary was threaded through his large fingers and the smooth beads rolled across her palm.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered back. “I’m just tired.”

Then she jerked as a hand molded cold fingers along the small of her back. The frisson swept up her spine, cat’s-paw creeping, something ready to pounce….

Anxiously she glanced behind herself again.

Her father frowned, clearly puzzled. She shook her head and pressed her hands together in prayer.

I’m fine, she told herself. But she was beginning to wonder if she was losing her mind.

“Iz?” Gino said. He raised his brows. “You bored?”

“Shut up.” Brother-sister interactions; some things never changed.

Mass ended. The DeMarcos took the Five, riding the subway as a trio until Grand Central, where they got out.

“Well, I’m off to save the damned,” Gino said cheerfully.

With a big hug and a kiss for both of them, he raced off to catch his train to New Haven. Izzy and Big Vince transferred to the Six.

There were no seats in the rush-hour crowd, so Big Vince and Izzy stood. He was quiet and reflective as they watched a woman with curly dark hair knit a pretty fuchsia sweater. “A decade. Hard to believe.”

She nodded.

“I see an elevated white blood cell count on the streets today, I’m shooting it,” he declared. “Screw Internal Affairs.”

They both smiled grimly at his dark humor. Izzy saw the anger behind it, and the despair. She wondered if her father ever sensed a cold hand against his backbone. Maybe it was Death tapping her on the shoulder, reminding her that no one lived forever.

And could I be any more morose?

At the 103rd Street stop, they got off and joined the crowd going up to ground level. The noise and traffic of the day were in full force; commuters rushed everywhere and car horns blared. Bicycle messengers rang their bells.

Walking briskly together, they headed toward her Starbucks. He said, “You asking that man over tonight?”

She hesitated. “It’s Ma’s day—”

He waved his hand. “We talked about this, Iz. It’s fine. So?”

“Okay,” she replied. Then, “You know his name is Pat.”

“What a name for a man.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, whatcha gonna do?”

“I’ma gonna invite him,” she said, giving him a lopsided smile.

He kissed her forehead. “I love you, baby,” he said, and trotted off to the station house, which was located on 102nd Street between Lexington and Third, while she went to fetch her coffee drink.

Twelve minutes later, heavily fortified with a venti latte with an espresso shot, she made certain her work badge was visible as she walked through the station house, answering all “good mornings” as she sailed down the hall toward the elevator. The switchboard—actually a pair of push-button phones—chimed incessantly; the patrol officers’ utility belts and leather shoes squeaked; doors slammed opened, slammed shut.

Captain Clancy was in; her frosted-glass door was half-open and Izzy heard her talking on the phone, although she couldn’t make out the individual words. Detective Attebury hurried past Izzy, giving her a wave as he talked on his cell.

At the end of the hall, in front of the elevator, she swiped the first of three IDs necessary to admit her into her subterranean domain: the Twenty-Seventh Precinct Property Room. Like most NYPD Prop rooms, the Two-Seven’s was located in the basement of the building, which had seen better days. It used to depress her; down in the bowels and away from the action, she felt as if she were buried alive. But now that she had a plan to get up and out, she felt a growing nostalgia for the familiar odors of dirt and old, musty furniture.

The elevator dinged and let her out. She walked the short distance to what looked like the reception area of a doctor’s office and tried the door. It was locked, and she didn’t see Yolanda in the cage beyond it—she had probably secured the door to use the restroom—so Izzy punched the code in the keypad beside it. It clicked open and she left it open as she walked through the area. Once she was in the Prop cage, it was all right to leave the reception door unsecured.

She glanced around to make sure everything was in order. On the wall beside the sofa, the damaged bookcase still sat; the pale orange silk flowers on the coffee table needed dusting. The aging linoleum floor smelled of lemon polish and decades of grime that couldn’t be cleaned away. She glanced through the slide-open window into the Prop cage itself. It was deserted, but someone was always on duty in Property, 24/7, unless there was a lockdown. That happened twice a month at most.

She coded in the Prop room lock and swiped her badge. The metal door clicked and she pushed her way in. The warning buzz vied with the zing of the overhead fluorescents for most annoying sound of the day.

The Property cage looked just like that—a cage, ringed with diamond-mesh lockers of various sizes, one by one by one up to longer sizes to accommodate rifles and shotguns. Metal chart holders like those on the doors of medical doctors’ examination rooms held the paperwork for the property in each locker. The individual three-by-five cards told the story of the chain of custody for each item, through a series of tags with bar codes, signatures and a rainbow of tapes. Each individual who received the evidence, from collection to storage, had their own rolls of identifying tape. Prop’s evidence tape was candy cane. After a few months on the job, Prop personnel could tell at a glance who had custody of what, and when.

Each person who worked in Prop had their own territory consisting of various lockers and they—and no one else in Prop—had a set of keys to their set. Izzy’s were all over the place, mingled in with those who had come through Prop and moved on to something else. Aside from two retired police officers—Joe Fletcher and Steve Jones—everyone else, like Izzy, was a civilian who had two years of college and had completed the ninth-month internship program.

The Dread Machine—their computer—hummed along. The radio beside it was playing banda music—Yolanda Sanchez’s choice—and Izzy turned it down low. She still needed a little time to get her work groove on.

Beside the radio was a yellow stickie from Yolanda. “Morning, Izzy, in the ladies’.”

She set down her latte and logged in on the computer. She took a brief tour of the cage—both online and visual—to see what had gone on over the weekend and during Yolanda’s graveyard shift. Lots of newly filled lockers. Business had been brisk.

She flipped open the logbook, the cover of which was plastered with Yankees stickers—the guys, a couple of Marc Anthony stickers—Yolanda and a Holy Apostles sticker from Gino. There, on the two-foot-long sheets of security paper printed with thermochromatic ink, were Yolanda’s careful notations and the UPC codes she had generated.

Less than a minute later her first pissed-off customer of the day was blustering at her. He would not be the last, because she did her job well.

“This is ridiculous,” Nick Nelson flung at her. He was tall and muscular, and very photogenic. “You are obstructing justice.”

“This is procedure,” she shot back. “You filled out my form wrong. Fill it out right, and you get your evidence.”

Nelson scowled at her as if he wanted to reach through the reception window and throttle her. The media darling of Forensics, he was running late for court and he wanted her to hand over the murder weapon in his case, a .44 Magnum, right this very minute. That would not have been a problem if he hadn’t written the incorrect case number on his Evidence Order form. He wanted to scribble it out and write over it. No could do. Big procedural sin. No write-overs, no correcting fluid. Ever.

She had already handed him a fresh form and suggested he hop to it…and that he do so before she left the cage window to retrieve the gun. No, she would not bring it out until he had complied. She was very serious about breaching chain of custody.

He was livid. She stood her ground. Yolanda had nearly gotten fired last month, and if the boys around here thought Izzy DeMarco had gone by the book before the incident, they were in for even more bad news.

On December fourth at 3:12 in the morning, a tired cop named Elario “Haha” Alcina, already on overtime, had brought in a bomber jacket from a crime scene. He could have had Prop drive it in—there were Prop van drivers on-call 24/7 for just this purpose—but he had his own reasons, which he did not share, for dropping it by himself.

He told Yolanda, who was the evidence clerk that night, that the jacket had been thoroughly checked out and was ready to be admitted into the Prop room. Yolanda had no cause to disbelieve him, so she’d processed it in and put it in one of her lockers.

Alcina went back upstairs, filed the rest of his voluminous paperwork and went home. A week later, Forensics wanted the jacket.

Her locker, her key: Yolanda had efficiently complied, fetching the jacket in the plastic bag she had closed a week before with a red paper security strap. The card with its signatures, UPC tag and evidence tapes matched the logbook: yellow from the initial collection, black dot for Alcina, candy cane from Prop.

And just as she handed the bag to the forensics tech, a loaded SIG-Sauer P-228 semiautomatic concealed in a hidden pocket discharged. The round barely missed the tech’s hand and now there was a sign on the shattered remains of the bookcase in the receiving area that read Yolanda Shot Me!

The brass wanted to blame Yolanda, of course. She was a civilian and she was brand-new, twenty-two years old and still on probation. She was in the most vulnerable position; cops took care of their own first. The official argument went that the Prop Department was supposed to refuse to process any and all firearms that weren’t rendered safe, and a loaded weapon had remained unaccounted for for a week because of her “negligence.” Maybe Yolanda hadn’t checked carefully enough, but surely this one was on someone else’s shoulders—whoever collected the jacket, who maybe was or maybe wasn’t Alcina—Prop was not getting a clear answer on that.

It was Christmastime and Yolanda had worked hard in Prop for sixty-four days. Her probationary period was ninety days. Besides, she had just broken up with her hideous boyfriend and moved in with her girlfriend Tria and Tria’s little boy. She had enough to contend with.

“Orale, they’re blaming me, Izzy,” Yolanda had sobbed in their break room after she had had yet another meeting with the bosses. They seemed determined to fire her—despite the fact that six months before, an officer in the men’s locker room had dropped his loaded weapon, caught it and almost blown his own head off—with total impunity.

Incensed, Izzy had stormed out of the cage and through reception to the elevator, with the express intention of going upstairs to their precinct captain, Lisa Clancy, and demanding justice. Thirty years her father had been on the force; is this how they treated people who worked for this woman’s newer, friendlier NYPD?

Luckily—in more ways than one—she had run into Detective Pat Kittrell instead. She was not in a position to demand anything from Captain Clancy, and the last thing she’d needed was a reputation for attempting to pull rank because she was a cop’s kid.

No matter, of course, that every detective in a hurry tried to pull rank on the Prop staff. NYPD figured they were doing the “real” work. So if they wanted some slack, Prop should give it to them, right?

So wrong. Especially when their own failure to follow correct procedures nearly got a sweet young woman like Yolanda canned. So…there would be no quarter given when someone wanted Izzy to leave the labyrinth of codes and procedures to save his lazy butt from a redo.

She calmly sipped her latte while the imposing cop tried again.

“If we lose this case because of you—”

“Talk to the form,” she said, tapping the Evidence Order with a short, unadorned fingernail.

He snatched it from her and stomped off like the diva he was.

“He thinks he’s all that since he got that profile on ‘Court TV,’” Yolanda grumbled as she reentered the Prop cage from the bathroom. As usual, she had on so much makeup that she looked like an airbrushed Maxim model. Yolanda was wearing brilliant red polish that matched her lipstick. Her smooth black hair was pulled back with a red-and-silver ponytail clip. Her earrings were red-and-silver hoops. As a rule, Izzy appreciated her flamboyant style.

Despite her successful FBI background check, upstairs wasn’t fully aware of some of the rough patches Yolanda had been through. They didn’t need to know; Yolanda was trying hard to “overcome” her past, as she herself liked to phrase it. Izzy supported her in that, protective of the young woman and of her budding self-esteem.

So when she invited Izzy over to “fix her up”—i.e., to teach her how to trowel on a few layers of foundation and do something, anything, with her crazy hair—Izzy went. But Yolanda’s evil boyfriend had hung around, making gibes at Yolanda and coming on to Izzy when Yolanda had to use the bathroom. It was too depressing to repeat the experience, so Izzy had found reasons not to go over to Yolanda’s again. They socialized by going out for lunch during the workday and occasionally out to dinner. Because she didn’t want to go to Yolanda’s, Izzy didn’t invite her into her own home, either. Now that Yolanda had moved, maybe they could try again.

“It doesn’t matter if he’s on every cable channel,” Izzy said to Yolanda. “We’ve got rules for a reason. We do it wrong, the bad guys walk. It’s that simple.”

“Okay, well, I’m getting out of here,” Yolanda said. Then she looked past Izzy to the window and said, “Oh, hey. Hi.”

“Yo, Yo, Yo, Yolanda.” John Cratty, a plainclothes from SNEU—Street Narcotics Enforcement Unit—trotted up to the window with a doughnut-size box filled with plastic Baggies. It was bagged in a very large Ziploc-style container, and a little paper-and-metal tag, like the price tag at a yard sale, was attached to the zip-tie. His signature turquoise tape was attached to the tag.

His brown hair was long and dirty, and in his jeans and Kurt Cobain T-shirt, he looked like an underachieving, very low-end drug dealer. It was a good look for him.

Yolanda said, “Yo, yo, yourself. You brought your own stuff in again?”

“Van drivers had been on sixteen hours,” he explained. “I said I’d do it.”

“You’re so nice,” Yolanda cooed. She said to Izzy, “I can get it.”

Izzy glanced at the computer and said, “I already logged in. You’re off the clock, girlfriend.”

“No, I’ll catch it. I need to show a little more effort. I, um, spent a little time in the bathroom….”

Putting on makeup, Izzy silently filled in. And perfume. Whoa, is she seeing Cratty?

Izzy read the case number off the tag and typed all the specs into the computer—case number, detective on the case, date, yada yada. The NYPD had made over four hundred thousand arrests in the prior year; fifteen hundred of the Two-Seven’s arrests had been in the seven major crime categories: murder, rape, assault, robbery, burglary, grand larceny and auto theft. By contrast, the Nineteenth Precinct, which was a much nicer neighborhood, had three thousand, nine hundred and forty-two arrests, most of them for grand larceny—theft of personal property of one thousand dollars or more.

She knew all these stats because the Dread Machine took her raw data and added it to the enormous NYPD database and processed it. There were two end results: updated stats for them that cared and a set of UPC tags for her. Since this was drugs, she ordered a good dozen of the tags.

She put one strip in the logbook and began to write in all the data.

Watching her, Cratty rested his forearms on the ledge of the window.

“You look tired, Ms. Iz,” he said. “You go out dancing last night without me again?”

Looking up, Izzy gave him a faint half-smile. “When have I ever done that, Justin Timberlake?”

She accidentally brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips as she picked up the bag, and remembered a time when her fingers had touched more than the evidence she was booking for him in a street bust. Not that they had gone to bed. It had ended before then. Not so much ended as fizzled out. Never started.

Which was a bit of a pity. When he wasn’t working the streets, Cratty cleaned up nice, with his square jaw and his hazel eyes and his sandy-brown hair. She’d had a brief crush on him about two years ago, but she’d known even then that he didn’t really think of her as a girl.

Most of the guys thought of her as one of the guys—someone to drink beer with after work, shoot some pool and ask for advice about the girls they wanted to date. Girls who had learned about hair and makeup back in high school, and frequently returned to the Secret School of the Feminine Arts for refresher courses.

Girls exactly like Yolanda.

Cratty whistled “Rock Your Body” to himself, grinning abstractedly at her.

“Hey, you see that Justin Timberlake special the other night?” Yolanda asked Cratty.

He gave her a look. “I’m a man,” he said. “A real man.”

“Well, you’re a real silly man,” Yolanda retorted. “Because he had these hot backup dancers.”

“Bet none of them were as pretty as you two girls,” Cratty replied, taking in Izzy, too.

“Yeah, but they were half-naked,” Yolanda said.

“HBO naked?” Cratty asked, more interested.

They launched into the vulgar sort of repartee that police precincts are known for, no matter all the seminars and counseling sessions about how to act in public. Police work wasn’t lollipops and teddy bears unless you worked in traffic safety or child abuse. It was harsh and nasty and cold. It was the front line and being on point. So personnel blew off steam, repackaging their hostility and angst in sexual innuendos and merciless teasing.

As long as it didn’t get out of hand, most women in the station house dealt with it in one of three ways: recognizing it for what it was and letting it go; showing the guys the line in the sand that they’d better not cross; or giving as good as they got. It was pretty much a tap dance any way you looked at it.

The dance was more extreme if you were a female cop, because suddenly you were challenging an army of alpha males on their home turf. They were already jockeying among themselves to be leader of the pack. They didn’t need any bitches getting in their way. Civilian women as a rule were less intimidating because their jobs were in admin support.

“You could see all that?” Cratty asked Yolanda incredulously as she continued to needle him about what he had missed by boycotting Justin Timberlake.

Izzy hid her grin. Yolanda was giving him the business. After Izzy put on a pair of blue latex gloves, she laid a fresh evidence bag on the scale and zeroed it out. Now the scale would not include the weight of the bag when she checked in Cratty’s evidence.

She picked up her wire cutters and snicked off the zip-tie on the evidence bag.

She broke the red paper security sticker, reached in and gathered up the box.

Her stomach clenched; her skin felt too tight. Sweat broke out across her forehead. She wondered if she ought to excuse herself and head for the restroom. But she didn’t feel sick, exactly. Just…very tense.

“Iz?” Yolanda asked.

“I’m okay,” Izzy replied, and just as suddenly as the moment arrived, it left. “Really.” She smiled to prove it.

Yolanda glanced over Izzy’s shoulder and stabbed at the topmost page of the intake stack. “Where’d you go to school, J.C.? You spelled contraband wrong.”

“The streets are my halls of higher education,” Cratty shot back. “But give me the form back and—”

Yolanda exhaled impatiently. “By the book, Detective,” she informed him. “We’ll take it as is or you can redo the whole thing.”

Cratty huffed. Yolanda and Izzy smiled pleasantly at him, a wall of solidarity.

Izzy put the bag on the weight scale and peered at the digital readout. She said tactfully, “It’s a little light, John. I weigh the bag in at two hundred forty-eight grams.”

“That’s how much my earrings weigh,” Yolanda said, mocking herself as she wagged her head. “You confiscated my earrings in drugs. Good for you.”

Cratty looked confused and pointed to the form. “That’s what I wrote down. Two hundred forty-eight Undertaker.” Undertaker was a brand name for heroin. There were all kinds of brand names, and sometimes rival dealers murdered each other for trademark infringement.

“No, you said two hundred fifty-three,” Izzy replied. She was confused. “Didn’t you just tell me it was two fifty-three?”

“What?” Cratty paled. He looked from her to the scale, then craned his neck to read his paperwork upside down. She glanced down at his hands, clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“You said two-five-three. When you walked up,” Izzy insisted. She thought back, replaying the last couple of minutes, and realized that he hadn’t.

“No.” He ducked forward and reached out his hand as if he were trying to yank the paperwork back from Yolanda. “I wrote—”

“Two hundred forty-eight, Izzy,” Yolanda read off, pointing at the appropriate spot on the form. She held it up for Izzy to inspect. “See?”

She recognized Cratty’s writing: 248 gm.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” She rubbed her eyes and shook her head as if to get rid of the cobwebs. “I don’t know what’s up with me.”

“I never said two hundred fifty-three,” Cratty insisted.

“I know. It’s okay, John,” Izzy replied. She understood his unease—to an extent. Drugs were a delicate subject in Property rooms. Cops were human, just like everyone else, and drugs posed a serious temptation even for saints. Skimming off a few ounces of heroin here, a line of cocaine there, whether for personal recreation or to sell on the side—drugs brought cops down.

“Hey. No big deal,” he said generously.

But there were droplets of moisture on his forehead and a muscle in his cheek jumped. She wondered if he’d been written up for something. Maybe he’d been told to get it together. His love life seemed to be going okay, by the looks of Yolanda’s flushed pink cheeks. But cops as a rule had a lot to contend with—usually alimony somewhere, child support…

“All right,” Izzy said, lifting it off the scale. The jittery feeling was threatening to return. What the heck was up with her? She had anxious cops for breakfast.

Yolanda and Cratty continued to chat while the room whirled faster and faster. She felt as if she were standing in the middle of a whirlpool.

And then she heard a voice in her head.

He’s on his way. You had better be ready.

Or he will kill you.

I zzy jerked her head up.

“What?” she said out loud.

Not this one, said the voice.

Then it all faded like a strange, bad dream and she was left to wonder if it had happened at all.

The Prop elevator opened, to discharge the one guy in the precinct who didn’t think of Isabella DeMarco as a semi-guy. Detective Pat Kittrell entered the reception area and ambled up to the window beside Cratty, loose and easy and minus the balled-up tension tearing at Izzy this morning.

Or maybe he was just better at hiding it. Their previous captain, Hal Schricker, had said that anyone who spent more than six years in law enforcement was certifiable, himself included. Pat had been at it a lot longer than that.

He was six-two; white-blond, including his eyebrows; sunny green eyes; no visible scars in the field of tanned skin, but she knew his history. He had a wound: his pregnant wife had been murdered by a drunk driver years ago. Maybe the tragedy had healed over into a scar by now, but she didn’t know that yet. Texas born and raised, he had been with the Dallas police at the time of the murder.

Afterward, he’d bounced around; there was a stint in Arizona, one in Albuquerque and then New York. He’d put in enough time with the NYPD to become a detective, and he had transferred into the Two-Seven just before Thanksgiving.

But there was nothing New York about Pat Kittrell. He was all Southern gentleman, with plenty of time for the niceties. Courtly, old-fashioned, and in some ways as traditional as Big Vince. He talked slowly, he smiled broadly…and she was beginning to suspect that he really liked her.

They had been out a few times—coffee, a quick meal after work, cut short by a call back to the precinct for him—what to outsiders would appear to be ridiculous and short-circuited attempts to date. There were reasons so many cops were divorced and drank too much.

They were trying to go to a movie, but so far their schedules hadn’t cooperated.

And I’m going to invite him over for dinner, she thought, her stomach doing a flip. Big Vince wants to sit down with him and make sure he’s good enough for me, even if he is a non-Italian.

“Mornin’, Iz,” Pat said as he came up behind Cratty at the window.

She put up a hand in greeting, but shifted her attention back to Cratty as Yolanda smacked his hand. He was attempting to fish out one of the pens in Izzy’s Walk for the Cure coffee cup beside their terminal.

“I want to spell ‘contraband’ right,” he whined.

“Too late. Unless you want to do the whole page over, like Yolanda said,” Izzy told him.

“You go, Iz,” Yolanda said in support, pointing a red nail at Cratty. “Don’t listen to him. He’ll try to flirt you into it.”

Cratty whined some more. “Wrong. That would be sexual harassment.”

“Not coming from you,” Yolanda teased him. “Because it has to be sexual.”

“God, she’s mean,” Cratty said, sighing as he turned hopefully back to Izzy. “C’mon. You’d let Kittrell here change it.”

Izzy felt her cheeks go hot. She hadn’t realized anyone had noticed their mutual interest.

“Wrong,” Izzy said sternly. “The rules are the rules.”

“Woof,” Yolanda said approvingly. “Venga, mami.”

“Okay, okay,” Cratty muttered. “Let it stand.”

“No one is going to care,” Izzy reminded him, glad they could proceed. “The bosses are after collars, not spelling errors.” Cratty was a very ambitious cop. Izzy wouldn’t be at all surprised to see him make captain—unless whatever was bugging him was big enough to tarnish his sterling reputation.

With rapid-fire efficiency, she finished his paperwork and added one of her bar codes. She handed him back some dupes, his receipts for the drugs, which she would keep in one of her lockers until there was enough accumulated in the department sufficient for a pickup. Then it would go to central holding, supposedly for destruction, but no one really believed that. The Justice Department used a lot of contraband to pay for the return of CIA field personnel and other clandestine activities.

“Thank you, ladies,” Cratty said, recovering his charm. “Your turn, Detective,” he said to Pat.

He moved off and Pat took his place. Pat had a five o’clock shadow. His beard was light brown. There were deep dimples in his cheeks when he smiled, and he was smiling now. He was wearing a black suit and he looked sharply masculine, more like a businessman who had just tiptoed out of a date’s bedroom than someone who put away bad guys for a living.

He said to her, “I pulled an all-nighter. Had an Aided I picked up in Two-Seven David. He got messed up by some At-Risks trying to loot a Bombs R Us.”

An “Aided” meant he’d had to accompany someone, victim or perp, to the hospital—the Metropolitan, in this and almost all cases. That meant reams of paperwork and, usually, hours and hours of overtime. An “At-Risk” was a juvenile offender. And “Bombs R US” was any electronics store where a wise perp could buy all the components he needed to build a bomb, which had been located in the sector referred to as 27D.

She could ask for details, but it was shoptalk and she was trying to develop an other-than-work relationship with him.

“You’re okay, though?” she said.

“Sure. I’m going home to sleep for a year. Or maybe until you get off work.”

Her smile was frozen into place by a surprise attack of butterflies. “Ah,” she croaked. “Then you’ll be hungry when you wake up.”

His gaze was direct, his eyes sparkling. They reminded her of the Pacific Ocean, although she had never seen it. “Yes, I will be,” he said. “Starving.”

“Yeah, well.” She touched the tortoise shell clip restraining her insane hair. “Um, that’s good, because I want to…”

“You reading your patrol manual?” he asked her. “Thought after I catch some Zs and you piss off some more law-enforcement officers, we might have dinner and I could quiz you.”

Pat was helping her study the official handbook of the Department because she was getting her application together for the Police Academy. She had the sixty units of college level courses; she was still young enough—there was really nothing stopping her. Learning the manual was to give her an added boost of confidence—Pat’s suggestion. He had sussed out that she was afraid she wouldn’t measure up, despite being a cop’s kid and the NYPD’s fondness for families continuing the tradition. But because she was so anxious, Pat wanted her to have an edge. She did, too.

Her father would lose his mind if he found out. He had made it more than clear that he did not want her to become a cop. The streets were brutal. He had lost Jorge Olivera, his partner, to a bullet from Jorge’s own gun, grabbed away by a suspect in a stupid convenience-store robbery attempt. He had lost his wife to an incurable disease no one could name. Izzy knew that if something happened to her, it would kill him.

And yet…what she had was not enough. What she did, not enough. She processed forms and organized evidence. She knew it was important work, that it contributed to putting away the bad guys and protecting the innocent. She understood that without clear-cut procedures, the machinery of justice, such as it was, would shatter, precisely because police officers operated under the rule of law. Chaos belonged to the street. Order, to those who wore the blue. Otherwise, it was only a matter of might making right.

She liked learning the manual with Pat, but she hadn’t come clean about her real problem. She had a phobia about guns. They scared her. Badly. Every night of her recurring nightmare ended with a gunshot.

She had not even told Dr. Sonnenfeld that.

Because what if her phobia was insurmountable? The goal of becoming a cop was what made it possible for her to swipe her tag into that elevator security lock every single workday.

The tenth anniversary of her mother’s death made it seem more important that she follow her dream—also, more frustrating. She had thought her father would have moved along by now, too. Found someone to take care of him—a woman his own age.

As the years ticked by, that seemed less and less like it was going to happen.

Izzy licked her lips. “Great minds think alike,” she said, “except for the ‘quizzing me on the book’ part.” How to deliver this news? “Big Vince wants to check you out.”

She went blank. This was new territory for them, and she was groggy from lack of sleep. “Because, you know, he doesn’t want me to apply to the Academy. So, tonight’s not good for the multiple choice…” She trailed off.

“Iz?” he asked, peering at her. “Are you asking me over for dinner at your place, darlin’?”

Darlin’? She worked overtime not to blush. For God’s sake, she was twenty-six years old. She’d even had sex…twenty-six million years ago.

Trouble was, she seemed to pick men like her father—very macho on the outside, but in search of some woman to dump all the detail work on, including the housework and the day-to-day details of, well, daily life.

Or maybe that was part of the definition of macho.

Maybe this invitation was a mistake.

“Iz?” he prodded, smiling at her with all the patience and good humor a seasoned detective could muster.

“I am,” she confirmed. “I am inviting you to our place for dinner. Tonight, if you’d like. Short notice, but what does it matter in our line of work?”

“That would be lovely,” he drawled, pulling a smile across his exhausted features. He was the kind of man who could say words like “lovely” and drench them with masculinity. “I’d like that.” He snaked his hand through the window and caught up hers. Warmth and lovely tingles. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll pass muster. Your father’s just looking out for you. He’s a cool old guy.”

“Say that to his face and he’ll deck you,” she shot back, smiling faintly, enjoying the sensation of flesh on flesh. They’d brushed lips, hello and goodbye, not done much else. She was the one who had pulled back every time. He was the one who let her.

He flashed her a quick wink. “Let him try.”

“Say that to his face and he will. Seven? That work?”

“That works. I’ve got the address.” He chuckled when she looked slightly surprised.

She released his hand, picked up her Starbucks and sipped. “We’ll be waiting. Big Vince will notice if you’re late.”

“Got it.”

They shared another smile and he sauntered off into the day. His back was broad. His hips, not so much. Sigh.

Yolanda poked her in the ribs with her elbow.

“Snag him, mami,” she said. “He is totally sweet.”

“You snag him,” Izzy teased her.

Yolanda closed her eyes and shook her head. “Chavela, I am finished with men. Never, never. Until at least next Tuesday.” She opened her eyes and giggled. “It doesn’t hurt to look. And that guy’s looking at you, so you might as well return the favor.”

“Whatever,” Izzy said noncommittally, picking up Cratty’s bag of drugs. “Meanwhile, I have evidence to stow.”

“Another day, another box of junk,” Yolanda said. “As if it mattered very much.”

“It has to matter,” Izzy said. “Doesn’t it?”

Yolanda sighed. “You have stars in your eyes, amiga. Me, I just want to do a good job and collect my paycheck. Find a guy, marry him, become a housewife and get fat.” Her eyes gleamed with predatory eagerness. “The simple life.”

“Believe me, there is nothing simple about it,” Izzy replied.

 

At five, Izzy was done for the day. She walked a few blocks in the setting sun to 110th where the Five had a stop. She went back down into the bowels of New York City and caught the train, groaning because it was packed.

As she held on to a strap in front of an old woman with a shopping bag, she reviewed her meal preparations for the evening. Cooking relaxed her, and she began to smile to herself as she envisioned the dishes she would prepare.

Serving and eating them with Pat and her father at the same table was another matter entirely.

The Five screeched to a stop and she joined the line dance as the other passengers shuffled toward the double doors and into the borough of Brooklyn. The train was steamy from riders sweating in their outerwear, rather than bothering to unpeel in the close confines of the car.

The doors opened to the underground station, letting in the stench of urine and the haunting refrain of a sax busking in the distance. Over the echoing clack of footfalls, two people argued loudly in Korean.

The escalator was broken, as usual; she took the cement steps, slowing behind a young Asian girl in a Yankees bomber jacket. Anticipating the chill outside, Izzy pulled her own jacket closer, wishing she’d worn her long coat.

Yeah, a coat like that one, she thought idly as she reached ground level and began to cross India on the same side as Russo’s and Fantone’s.

A man in an ankle-length black coat was standing in front of her row house. His legs are probably toasty…

An unexpected chill shot up her spine.

There was something about that man. Something she didn’t like.

She narrowed her eyes. There was nothing odd about him, at least when seen from the back. He was standing at the far end of the row house, closer to the Russos’ than hers, which was the one in the middle. He wasn’t particularly tall, and there was nothing menacing about his stance. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his head of dark hair tipped back as if he were gazing at the stars.

Her body went rigid; adrenaline coursed through her in classic flight or fight.

Why?

She didn’t have a clue. There was nothing about him to elicit her extreme reaction. But the sense of danger heightened as she reached the crosswalk and prepared to cross to her side of India.

Feeling foolish, she slunk behind the closer of the two maple trees to her right. The pocket park was padlocked after dark, and by the gleam of the streetlight, she could see that it was deserted.

Izzy peered between the branches of the tree. The man in the coat was nowhere to be seen. Snow fell where he had stood. Her heart still pounded; she was wet with sweat.

I’m insane.

She reminded herself that she knew self-defense; she also reminded herself that in the Department, the cops who trusted their instincts and knew their limitations were the ones who survived long enough to retire.

So she dialed Big Vince’s number, hoping he had beaten her home. She’d ask him to step outside and wait for her. Her father always answered her summons if he could—he had programmed his Nokia to play “Donna e mobile” from an opera by Verdi when his daughter called.

But she got his voice mail, so she left a message.

“Just wondering if you’re home. I’m almost there,” she said. Then she disconnected, put her phone back in her small black leather hobo bag and squared her shoulders. Her gaze alternating between her path and the street, she got to the crosswalk, waited for the light and crossed the tarmac, which was shiny with ice.

Warm, cheery lights from the windows of the other homes splashed across bushes and snow.

See? It’s all good, she told herself.

Then she neared the spot where the man had stood. Footprints. And a cigarette butt.

“Jerk,” she muttered, bending down to retrieve it.

If she had felt a sense of dread before—upon waking, at Mass—now it was so strong that she actually recoiled, taking a step backward.

Baffled, she turned and hurried up the three stairs leading to her stoop, unlocked the door and went in, and slammed the door behind herself.

What the hell is wrong with me? she wondered as she dropped her purse on the recliner and hung her jacket on the coatrack.

She entered her private domain—the kitchen—and started dinner. She decided that she had imagined the whole thing, and let it go.

 

Once she got the lasagna in the oven, she changed into a long black skirt and scoop-necked black sweater. When Pat knocked on her door in his black leather coat, black turtleneck sweater, jeans and cowboy boots, he looked a little bit like the Marlboro Man. Izzy had always thought the Marlboro Man looked hot, except for the cigarette.

The cigarette reminded her of the man loitering on the street and she debated about mentioning him to Pat. But there were flowers to coo over—a big, lavish collection of roses and baby’s breath. Besides, there was nothing Pat could do and he was not her knight in shining armor.

“That was delicious,” Pat said three hours later as he finished drying the dessert plates with the gold borders and stacking them on the counter. He took another sip of Amaretto from an ornate hand-blown Venetian liqueur glass, then folded the kitchen towel into a neat rectangle and hung it on the hook beside her mother’s collector plate of Pope John Paul II.

Izzy smiled appreciatively at the compliment. He had eaten heartily, thereby earning points with her and her father both. Big Vince had also been gratified to find out that Pat was a widower, like himself.

“Oh, I figured you for a divorced man,” he’d remarked casually. He’d worn his navy-blue sweater from Gino’s seminary, a Christmas present, advertising that they were Catholics and not so much fans of divorces.

“No, sir,” Pat had told him. Izzy was glad he’d said “sir.” Maybe he outranked Izzy’s father at work, but this was the patriarch’s table…and the patriarch’s daughter, too.

“But you’re not a Catholic,” Big Vince had ventured, as if that would be hoping for too much.

“Raised a United Methodist,” Pat had offered, clearly the best he could do. Izzy had winced. In her father’s hierarchy of Christian denominations, United Methodists hardly counted.

“Well, we were lapsed for a while,” Big Vince had said, dispensing religion largesse. “If you two will excuse me…”

He’d made himself scarce in his room, watching TV alone. Izzy knew this signaled his approval; had he disliked Pat, he would not have left him alone with his baby girl for one second.

Izzy poured Pat another shot of Amaretto, then gave herself one. She tipped her glass against his and said, “Cheers.”

“Dinner was great, dishes are done, bodyguard has left. So you can relax,” Pat said, sliding his arm around her waist and drawing her close as he leaned against the counter.

She put down her glass; he set down his own, and cupped her chin. He smiled at her. “Good?”

She nodded. He kissed her. His tongue slid between her parted lips and she tasted the sweet Amaretto, the saltiness of him. Her heart picked up speed; her body tensed. She felt his excitement. His hand moved down to the small of her back.

She put her hand around his neck and kissed him hard. He grunted as if in surprise—she usually kept their kisses short and easy—but after her victorious meal, it felt supremely right to kiss Pat Kittrell like she meant it.

When she ended the kiss, he settled his arms around her and said, “Seems I passed muster.”

“Seems you did.”

“It was washing the dishes, wasn’t it?” He kissed her again.

“Yes,” she concurred. “Think what will happen if you do the vacuuming.”

He guffawed and wrapped both his arms around her waist. “Let me at your Dirt Devil.”

“We both have to work tomorrow,” she said. “But next time, come over a little earlier and I’ll get you right on that.”

“Next time.” He stroked her cheek. “Nice to know there’s going to be one.”

“Yes. It is,” Izzy agreed.

 

Then he was gone, and her father said grudgingly, “He’s okay.”

She said, “Glad you think so,” and that was that. Then she added, “There was this guy outside when I came home. He was standing in front of our building, smoking.”

“Yeah?” Big Vince narrowed his eyes. “He bother you?”

“Not like that,” she told him. “He just seemed wrong, somehow.” She gestured. “He was about six feet, long black coat, smoker.”

“Hair color?”

“Mmm.” She made a face. “Some kind of dark. Streetlight, couldn’t tell.”

“Okay.” She could see the wheels of his cop brain filing it all away. “I’ll mention it to Hackett.” Grace Hackett was the beat cop for their neighborhood.

“I don’t think it was a big deal,” she continued. But she did. “Strike that.”

He drew an invisible line in the air. “Done.” He considered. “Maybe we ought to rethink that argument about you carrying some kind of protection. Such as a gun.”

There it was, her phobia. Once she conquered that…

Tell him. Tell him that you’re going to apply to the Academy.

“I think we should,” she said. “Rethink it. Because…” She took a breath.

But at that precise moment, a cheer rose up from the TV and his glance ticked back toward it. He shouted, “No! Oh, damn it!”

Exhaling—she had just squeaked out of that one—she said, “Good night.”

“Sleep,” he ordered her, watching the set. “Oh, for crying out loud!” he shouted, raising his hands into the air. “Well, whatcha gonna do?”

Smiling faintly, she left him to his travails.

She laid out her clothes for tomorrow, got into her nightgown—a fresh one, silky and lavender—and put her hair into a sloppy bun. She knelt at her bedside for the first time in a long time and prayed.

Take care of my mother, and let her know—

And again, as in St. Theresa’s, something shifted around her. Lowered, darkened.

Spooked, she crossed herself and climbed into bed.

 

Blood streamed down her face.

She was leaning over the lacy balcony as the creatures rushed the mansion. The trees were ablaze. The wounded were screaming.

He was gasping at her feet. If she didn’t get him to safety soon, he would die.

In the beating center of the battle below, a faceless man looked up at her.

A gun went off.

“O kay,” Pat said to Izzy, “the movie was bad. But do you have to punish me all night for it?”

She shifted against the maroon-leatherette booth of the diner as she smiled apologetically at him. She knew she was terrible company.

They were having an after-movie snack, he a burger; she, a bowl of chicken noodle soup. She had scarcely eaten a thing since the night he had come over for dinner. Scarcely eaten and hardly slept.

That was three nights ago, when the nightmare had changed. That was an understatement—taken a quantum leap was more accurate. Maybe that helped to explain the growing feelings of unease that had been plaguing her in the waking world. The anniversary of her mom’s death usually churned her up for a couple of weeks, but this was ridiculous.

“You’re all het up,” Pat went on, putting down his burger and wiping his hands on his napkin. He tented his fingers as he leaned toward her. “Something happened to you. Recently.”

“No.” Looking down at her bowl of soup, she shook her head, fully aware that she wasn’t convincing anybody, least of all a sophisticated cop who ferreted out lies for a living. She didn’t know him well enough to talk to him about it. She didn’t know anyone that well.

His face quirked; his dimples showed. “Well, it can’t be kissing me that did this to you.” He sounded so sure of himself that she had to smile back. “Forsooth, she maketh the candles to glow.”

“That’s nice. Shakespeare?”

“Kittrell,” he answered. He took her hand and wrapped his fist around her fingers, shaking them as if to loosen her up. “A guy who cares about you. Cares if there’s something eating at you. Can I help?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

He sighed. “Okay, I give. For now.” He checked his watch. “I have to go in. I’m putting you in a cab.”

“I’m fine on the subway,” she insisted.

“Maybe on some other guy’s watch.” He cocked his head and took a breath, as if he were about to ask her a question. Maybe if there was another guy. But he didn’t. He didn’t push, and she was grateful.

He paid the check—insisting that he had to or his mama would find out and hit him upside the head. Then they put on their coats and walked outside, while Pat flagged down a cab in record time for a nonnative.

As she climbed into the back, he leaned down and kissed her. “You get some rest, you hear?”

For an answer, she kissed him back. His lips were soft and he smelled so good, like soap and limes, and she lingered, her senses tantalized.

Beaming at her, Pat shut the door and Izzy waved a bit shyly at him through the frosty window.

She got home without incident, no strange men loitering in front of her house. As she let herself in, her father looked up from the TV in the front room. When he saw her in the foyer, he said, “Hey. How was it?”

“Nice.” She unwound the scarf from around her neck. “He’s nice.”

“He didn’t walk you in.” He peered around her, as if he expected Pat to appear.

“I took a cab. He had to go in to work.”

Big Vince drank his beer. “Big bust coming down. They briefed us on it. Sting operation. He tell you about it?”

“We don’t talk shop,” she said, yawning. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good.” He nodded thoughtfully. “You got to take care of yourself, Iz. You’re getting too thin.”

She sighed. Everyone was on her case tonight.

“Night,” she said.

She took the stairs, washed her face and brushed her teeth, changed into her white nightgown and crossed to her bed. For a moment she thought about pulling back the curtains. Then she ignored her impulse and pulled back the coverlet, and slid into fresh sheets and, hopefully, some rest.

 

Don’t look down, a voice said inside her head.

But she did. And there he was, silhouetted by flames.

The smiling man’s features were very sharp, and a large purple scar ran diagonally from the right side of his jaw to his left temple. His face was all angles; his almond-shaped eyes were dark and fierce beneath brows that slanted upward. He looked devilish.

She had a gun in her hand and she raised it slowly. Her hand began to shake as she pointed it at him. His eyes widened in fear, and then his gaze shifted to a point behind her. He bared his teeth like an animal.

Izzy turned.

They are looking for you. Both of them, a voice said.

Within the arched curves of a Medieval monastery, a figure scanned the horizon. It was another man, very tall, with a riot of hair that tumbled down his shoulders, like her own.

A blue-tinted fog boiled up and around the long-haired man in the monastery, sharply casting him in chiaroscuro. He was holding a glowing sphere. It illuminated his fingers; on his left ring finger, something heavy and gold glittered, more like a signet ring than a wedding ring.

Then a voice rumbled like thunder, shaking her spine with a low, masculine timbre.

“Isabelle? Je suis Jean-Marc de Devereaux des Ombres. Je vous cherche. Attendez-moi. Je vous cherche.”

 

This time Izzy woke slowly, clutching the sheets as she whispered to the darkness, “Oui. Je suis là.” “Yes, I am here,” in French.

Only, she didn’t speak French.

 

Haggard, feeling as if she’d been run over, Izzy went down into the bowels of the Two-Seven. Yolanda was taking a personal day, but the new-hire, Julius Esposito, was there. He had had his black hair processed and she thought it looked a little silly, like he was an extra in a movie about Harlem in the thirties or something. Or maybe she was just looking to find fault. She didn’t like him; there was something about the vibe he threw off that didn’t sit well with her. This was only his third day, and she hoped the situation improved. On the other hand, she could use it as further incentive to get herself out of Prop. “Good morning, Isabella,” he said rather formally as she entered the Property room.

“Oh, everyone calls me Izzy,” she told him. There was an evidence bag beside the terminal tagged with Cratty’s signature turquoise tape. She gestured to it with her head. “What did he bring in?”

“Crack,” he told her.

“He’s been busy lately,” she said, crossing to the terminal to log herself in. Her elbow brushed the bag.

It’s light. The words came to her as clearly as if someone had spoken them to her. She looked at the monitor. In the column for the weight, Julius had typed in 98 gm. It was almost a hundred ten when he confiscated it. Cratty took some before he sealed the bag

And there is no way for me to know that. None.

Freaked, she moved away from the terminal as casually as she could, while Julius finished his intake procedures, put the bag in one of his lockers and slammed it shut. Then he returned to the cage window and started fiddling with the radio. “Do you like smooth jazz?” he asked without looking at her.

“Sure,” she said, although she hated it. Right now music was the furthest thing from her mind. A wave of vertigo made her wobbly. She felt as if she were standing under water and the air in her lungs was all the air she was going to get—so she’d better hang on to it.

Eye-level on the shelf to her left, she saw one of Yolanda’s lockers. The three-by-five card in the pocket showed a strip of turquoise tape—Cratty’s. She walked over to it. Touched it.

She heard his voice inside her head.

“Beating him down in the subway tunnel. Filthy skel, lowlife piece of crap, hold out on me? Me?”

Izzy jerked her hand away. She glanced at Julius, who took no notice. I am hearing things. I’m crazy.

She spotted another of Yolanda’s locker cards marked with Cratty’s turquoise tape, on the same wall but two-thirds of the way down. She stared at it for a long, hard minute.

Then she walked over and touched it.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

She touched the eye-level container for the second time.

Nothing there, either.

Hallucinations, she thought. Her heart thudded; she could feel the vein in her neck pulsing hard. I need some sleep and maybe I need to see a shrink again. I’m in trouble.

 

At a late lunch the next day, in a joint around the corner from work, Yolanda pushed a business card across the expanse of red-and-white-checked plastic tablecloth and said, “Just go see her. There is something terribly wrong with you. You look like you’re dying.” She grimaced. “Sorry if that’s a sore subject.”

“It’s okay, Yolanda.” Izzy reluctantly read the card. It was for Dr. Mingmei Wei, Yolanda’s Oriental medicine doctor. Yolanda swore by her. She also paid her out of pocket, because their Department health insurance wouldn’t cover her services.

“It’s your chi,” Yolanda opined. “It’s out of whack. What she does is like feng shui, only for people. Psychic chiropractic. You need to get readjusted.”

“Does your priest know about this?” Izzy gibed.

“This is not funny. You are psychically ill.”

She indicated Izzy’s untouched barbecue-beef sandwich. “When’s the last time you ate a decent meal?” She gazed hard at Izzy. “Are you pregnant?”

Izzy burst out laughing. “Please. There’s only been one Immaculate Conception.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Yolanda stabbed her finger at the card. “But—”

Flames. Heat, smoke. Lungs…searing…

The image of her father’s red, sweaty face filled her mind.

She heard him gasping, coughing. “Izzy…Gino…”

“Oh, my God!” Izzy cried. She jumped to her feet. Her chair clattered to the tile floor. “My father’s in danger!”

“What?” Yolanda said, reaching out to her as she rose from her chair. “Izzy, wait!”

Izzy bolted and ran outside. A black cloud of thick, oily smoke billowed on the horizon. In her mind she saw her father, saw a hallway, saw rats and shapes moving in the flames.

I’m not asleep, she thought as she ran. I’m awake, and Big Vince is in that.

She flew toward the smoke, picking up speed until her feet were barely touching the ground. Her lungs burned but she kept going, weaving around pedestrians who yelled and jumped out of her way like missed targets in a shooting simulation. It was as if someone else was operating her body and she herself had no choice but to propel herself forward.

Images roared into her mind.

Flames…rats screeching down the halls. Shapes moving in the smoke. Officer Vincenzo DeMarco. Detective John Cratty.

And a semiauto pistol—a .9 mm Glock—in a closeup that filled her field of vision.

Pointed straight at her father’s head.

A voice. “Filthy cop, you’re gonna die; no one shakes me down.”

“Hit the floor!” she screamed out loud.

Then abruptly and without warning, her astonishing burst of energy left her. She staggered forward, swaying wildly left, then right; she smacked against the side of a brick-faced building and slid down it, pitching painfully onto her side.

She was dimly aware of people crowding around her, asking her if she was all right. Should they call an ambulance?

“Hey!” Yolanda caught up with her. She was carrying Izzy’s coat and purse. “Hijo de puta, did someone mug you?”

“I’m okay.” Izzy ground the words out. Yolanda put her arm around her waist, helping her to her feet.

“Are you loca?” Yolanda said. She whistled and waved as a cab approached. The cab swerved to the curb.

“Come on, Iz,” Yolanda said, helping her to the cab.

The cabbie peered at them and frowned as his window rolled down.

“Go toward 108th,” Izzy told him as they got in. To Yolanda, she ordered, “Get my cell phone, and call my father. Number one on my speed dial.”

The cabbie shook his head. “No way. See that smoke? The cops have got it blocked off.”

“You have to go there!” Izzy yelled.

Yolanda squeezed Izzy’s hand as she opened up Izzy’s hobo bag with her other hand and dug around. “Easy, mi amor. We don’t know your father is in that building.”

“You need a cab or not?” the driver snapped.

Ignoring him, Yolanda found Izzy’s cell phone and pressed a couple of buttons. She put the phone to Izzy’s ear.

“Cratty, ten,” came a raspy, hoarse voice. “Ten” was the same as saying “over” on a police radio phone.

“This is Izzy,” Izzy announced, confused.

“It’s John, Izzy. We’re in an ambulance. Smoke inhalation. They’ve got him sucking some oxygen but it’s just a precaution. We’re going to the Metropolitan.”

“He wasn’t shot?” she asked, her voice shrill. “Tell me if he was shot!”

“No, Iz. No. Just smoke.” He sounded a little off. “Meet us at the Met.”

Located on First, it was the nearest hospital. It was where Pat had taken his Aided last night.

And her father was with the guy she had seen in visions, beating people and skimming drugs. Why was he with him? Had he tried to shoot him?

Izzy said neutrally, “Thanks. Tell him we’ll be there.”

Disconnecting, she said to the cabbie, “Take us to the Metropolitan.”

“You got it.” He screeched into the traffic.

She said to Yolanda. “Call in and explain. You’re taking me in because I’m injured.”

“Works for me, mi’jita,” Yolanda said, biting her lower lip as she smoothed Izzy’s hair away from her wound. “Especially because it’s true.”

 

Izzy and Yolanda both knew the way to the ER entrance of the Metropolitan Medical Center. Anyone who worked for the NYPD in this part of town eventually found him or herself here, if not for a perp or a personal injury, then for someone close to them.

She half crawled out of the cab while Yolanda paid the driver. An ambulance sat in the dock as two men in scrubs burst out from the ER double doors, a gurney rattling between them.

John Cratty got out of the ambulance, appearing from behind the open back door of the rig. He was wearing kicker boots, jeans, a T-shirt, and a heavy dark brown leather jacket. His face was covered with soot, but he was walking under his own steam. He motioned to the two men, pointing back into the ambulance.

Within seconds, Izzy’s father was loaded onto the gurney.

“Big Vince!” Izzy cried, hurrying toward them while Yolanda worked to stay up with her.

Izzy saw the portable O2 bottle propped against his shoulder, the mask over his face. There were saline bags and a defib machine on the gurney with him—oh, God, had he had a heart attack?

As Izzy approached, Cratty put his arms around her, giving her a tight hug. She stiffened, but he didn’t notice.

He said, “Your father’s in good shape.”

“The defib—”

“Wasn’t used. But what the hell happened to you?”

“Just a fall,” she said as she pushed past him and ran up to her father’s gurney.

His eyes were closed.

“Daddy!” she cried. “Daddy!”

The orderlies pushed the gurney through the double doors, Izzy holding Big Vince’s limp fingers. Yolanda and Cratty brought up the rear.

Inside the building, a short man in dark blue scrubs barked orders at the two men, then said to Izzy, “We’re taking him in.” He held up a restraining hand. “You can’t go with him. Let us do our job. Besides, you look like you need help.”

“No,” she protested, but Cratty took her arm.

“You know the routine,” he reminded her. “They need their space.”

The gurney zoomed on past her as the trio hung a left and disappeared down a corridor.

“You two were in a building?” Yolanda asked him as she led Izzy to the left, through a door marked Emergency Waiting Room. “The one on fire?”

“We got the hell out of there as soon as the real firemen showed up,” he concurred, puffing air out of his cheeks. “Had a couple of rough moments.”

“What were you doing in there?” Izzy asked sharply. All her alarm bells were going off at once, and at full volume.

“We were on a detail,” he said, locking gazes with her. “Confidential.”

She didn’t know what to say. They kept walking, past people sprawled in rows and rows of orange-plastic chairs, looking pale and sick and tired of waiting.

Cratty flashed his badge and the three passed through to a second security door to the curtained sections filled with ER cases. Her father was lying on his gurney with a sooty face and bloodshot eyes barely visible above an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. When he saw Izzy, his eyebrows met over his nose and he tried to take off the mask.

She knew he was staring at her injury. “It’s nothing, Big Vince,” she insisted, touching her cut.

The dark-haired nurse who had just wheeled a blood pressure monitor to the side of the gurney said, “We’ll look at that.”

“It’s fine,” Izzy repeated. But the truth was, her vision was blurring and she was dizzy. “Maybe I’ll just sit down.”

And then she fainted.

I t’s the gun. They will shoot him with the gun. It will stop his heart.

 

Izzy woke up in a softly lit room.

Pat was bending over her, the tan lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes softened by the dim illumination. But the worry on his face was evident, and she was touched.

“You passed out,” he said by way of greeting. He had on a sweatshirt that read Dallas Cowboys and a pair of jeans. Off-duty attire, since he wasn’t undercover. He looked sexy…and worried. “They’re keeping you under observation.”

“My father…”

Pat chuckled softly. “He’s awake, alert, and ready to leave. They want to keep him overnight, but frankly, I fear for their lives.”

She smiled at that. “Where’s Cratty? And Yolanda?”

“Back in the world. Yolanda’s very worried about you.”

“That’s so sweet,” she said.

An IV had been inserted into the back of her hand. Her gaze trailed up the clear plastic tubing to the bag hanging from a metal carrousel.

“Your electrolytes were out of whack.” He smoothed her hair away from her forehead. His fingers were calloused, but his touch was gentle. “They’re running some tests. Just as a precaution.”

His voice was low and steady. She felt calmed by his air of quiet authority.

“What happened, Izzy?” he asked her, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Yolanda said you freaked out in the restaurant.”

“I…” She didn’t want to try to explain it to him. It was all beginning to fade. She had seen her father, hadn’t she? “I had a funny feeling…” She trailed off.

He urged a cup with a straw to her lips again. “It’s okay, darlin’. You don’t have to talk if you’re too tired.”

They sat in stillness for a moment—or what passed for stillness in a busy hospital. Doors opened, shut. The PA system paged a doctor. Machines beeped.

After a few moments Pat said, “I had a funny feeling like that, once.”

She looked up at him. He nodded calmly, but she could see the sorrow etched in his face. She assumed he was talking about his wife. She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

She said, “Is my father very upset? About me? He knows I’ve been admitted, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, he knows. And he’s upset. Bombastic is more appropriate, I’d say. But that’s because he loves you.”

She sighed heavily. “If he’s upset now, it’ll be nothing compared to telling him I want to go the Academy.” She considered. “If I can still get in. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Neurologically,” she elaborated.

“Don’t go looking for trouble,” he chided her gently.

“Why was John Cratty partnering with him?” she asked him. She debated about telling him about all the weirdness in the Prop room. But if she was wrong, she could bring a man down for nothing.

“Can’t rightly say.” Pat’s face was blank. She got it: private Department business, some kind of organized raid, something he wasn’t at liberty to discuss.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one who had felt a twinge of wrong around Cratty lately. That decided her.

“About Cratty,” she said.

He gave her a little nod. “Yes?”

“Nothing firm, nothing provable.”

“Same here,” he said.

“Whoa.” She nodded back. Their gazes locked. “I feel better.”

“Me, too, Iz.” He took her hand.

She took a deep breath, then said something that would humiliate Big Vince if he heard her say it. “My dad is…over fifty, Pat. He’s gone through a lot. Please remind whoever’s in charge of this Cratty thing. If it’s dangerous…”

“Understood.”

She was grateful to her core that he did understand. Suddenly it was the best thing in the world that the man she was attracted to was a cop. She was a cop’s daughter, and she wanted to be a cop. It was the only world she knew—no matter how dangerous or strange.

 

Pat had had to go back to the station. The physician on duty refused to release Izzy until she could prove that someone was going to stay with her for the next twenty-four hours.

She thought about staying with Aunt Clara, but their place in Queens was always pure bedlam. There would be endless calls between Clara and Big Vince, and a lot of yelling. Yes, she did love her big, noisy Italian family, but she needed some quiet tonight.

When she called Aunt Clara and the phone was busy, she took that as a sign not to pursue it. Then Yolanda arrived, telling her that her shift was over and she could take her home with her. “That okay?” Yolanda asked her excitedly. “I’d come to your house but Tria is working tonight so I need to watch Chango.”

Izzy raised a brow. She was fairly certain that chango meant “monkey” in Spanish. She rethought her decision. Except that Clara had five children, two dogs and several very noisy finches.

One night won’t kill me, she thought, making her decision.

“Okay. Thanks so much,” Izzy said.

“Bueno,” Yolanda said, clapping her hands. “Now, let’s go see your father before we go.”

Finally. Izzy had been begging them for hours to take her to him.

The doctor agreed to prepare Izzy’s discharge papers on condition that she sit in a wheelchair while Yolanda did the steering. Bouncing along, radiant in her helpfulness, Yolanda wheeled Izzy to an elevator.

They went up to another floor and Yolanda breezed her straight down a corridor, hung a left and paused on the threshold of a dimly lit room.

“Officer DeMarco? It’s us!” Yolanda sang out.

“Izzy?” her father croaked from the nearest bed.

“Yes.” Izzy began to rise from the chair. Yolanda clamped a hand on her shoulder and forced her to stay seated. She wheeled her into the room and around the side of the bed. “How are you, Daddy?” she asked softly.

“Everyone keeps asking me that. I’m fine.” Big Vince sounded exasperated and hoarse.

“It’s because they don’t want you to sue them,” Yolanda informed him. “If they let you out but you were still messed up, you’d have a case.”

“That so,” he said politely. He turned to Izzy. “How you doing, princess?”

Big Vince had not called Izzy “princess” in years. And she had not called him “Daddy” in years. It was as if those two softer people had been buried with her mother.

She said, “I’m okay.”

Yolanda cleared her throat. “I need a Diet Dr Pepper. I’ll check on you later, Izzy.”

She smiled gratefully. “Thanks.”

Yolanda left. Without taking his gaze from her face, Big Vince grunted. “This from falling?” he asked her, hand hovering above her temple.

Before she could answer he said in a rush, “Izzy, I have to tell you something.” His eyes got watery; his mouth pulled up in a smile. “Your mother saved my life.”

Izzy blinked. “What?”

He nodded eagerly, sitting up and grabbing her hands. “She looked down from heaven and warned me to hit the ground. The shooter was aiming right at us. I heard her voice in my head. If she hadn’t warned me, I would be dead.”

Izzy was stunned. She said slowly, “Did you really hear her voice? It was Ma?”

“Yes,” he said, seizing a couple of sheets of tissue from the box on the end table. He wiped his three-cornered Italian eyes. “I heard her loud and clear.”

His face was literally glowing.

“Your mother is still with us, baby. She hasn’t left us. And she saved my life today.” The tough Big Vince exterior cracked a little more. “My Anna Maria is back.”

Izzy stared at him. “It’s a miracle,” he whispered.

She reeled. The nightmare…all this time, had it been in preparation for this day, this danger? Was her mother really with them? She looked up, around, joyful and a little anxious, half expecting to see her mother’s ghostly apparition floating in the room.

“Did you tell Gino about all this yet?” she asked, not sure what else to say.

“His phone was turned off. Maybe he’s at Mass. I left a message for him to call me back.”

He held her hands and began to weep.

“Your mother,” he sobbed. “Your sainted mother.”

She didn’t know what to say.

 

Upon her discharge, the doctor informed Izzy that she was anemic, gave her a prescription for iron pills and sent her home to bed.

“And have a steak,” he told her.

Yolanda’s roommate, Tria, picked them up at the curb in a beat-up, old, pale green Chevy station wagon. McDonald’s wrappers and yellowed copies of The Star littered the floor. Izzy sat in front and Yolanda wrapped herself around the chubby-cheeked baby who was strapped into an infant car seat in the back.

They didn’t live far away, which was to say that they lived in a bad part of town. It wasn’t the projects, but it was close. They parked on the street, behind a broken-down truck and a low-rider guarded by a boy of about eleven wearing a black bandana over his hair. Tria sprang Chango—whose real name was Calvin—from car seat prison. As they walked toward the entrance of a twelve-story brick apartment building, Yolanda got quiet, as if she were embarrassed that she had brought Izzy here. Maybe in the enthusiasm of inviting Izzy to recuperate at her place, she had forgotten that her new place wasn’t half as nice as her old place.

The entrance was coated with graffiti. The elevator reeked of booze, marijuana and pee. As they rode it to the ninth floor, Yolanda’s perfume wafted toward Izzy and she was grateful for the sweet vanilla scent.

They entered the tiny one-bedroom apartment. Posters of movie stars had been tacked up on the cracked pale-green walls with pushpins. There was a broken-down, green corduroy couch, a pile of books, the top of which read Medical Assistant Test Preparation. A sliver-size kitchen was fairly clean, the counter dotted with baby food jars, bottles and a container of powdered formula.

Incongruous in the extreme, an enormous state-of-the-art high-definition TV sat about three feet from the couch. It took up over half of the entire room.

Yolanda saw Izzy looking at it and said, “Flaco gave that to me.” Flaco was her evil ex-boyfriend.

“Girl, you told me you bought that thing,” Tria said accusingly. “What, he give you that when you moved out? He probably stole it.”

Yolanda looked stricken. Izzy said, “Well, it’s a very nice TV.”

“Unless it’s stolen. Then it is not nice,” Tria insisted.

Izzy really didn’t want to know any more sordid details, so she excused herself, called her father from the bedroom and assured him that all was well. He sounded tired and she didn’t stay on long.

Gino called and she said, “I’m okay.”

“Aunt Clara’s upset that you aren’t staying with her,” he informed her. “She wants to call you and tell you so. I told her they’ve got you on drugs. That may buy you some time.”

“You’re a saint.”

“Working on it,” he replied. “I’ll get the boys to pray for you.”

“Make sure they’re getting A’s in praying.”

“Our permanent records are very accurate.”

He hung up.

“We’ve got it all worked out,” Yolanda told her.

It was like a teenager overnight. Izzy was supposed to take the double bed in the bedroom. The sheets, which featured angels with big eyes, were clean. Yolanda would sleep on the couch until Tria came home around five in the morning or so. Izzy wasn’t sure what Tria did, and she didn’t ask. When Tria got home, Yolanda would move from the couch to a pile of cushions on the floor. Izzy wanted to object, but didn’t. Her head hurt and she was exhausted.

While Yolanda fussed over the baby, Tria said to Izzy, “You have whatever you want in the fridge, honey. We got some leftovers from the Roy Rogers down the street.”

“Thank you,” Izzy said politely. She thought with fleeting longing of the baked ziti she had made last night, with plans to microwave the leftovers tonight. At least her appetite was back.

She accepted an oversize T-shirt that read ¡Suave! beneath a faded picture of Marc Anthony and put it on, got into bed and closed her eyes. Through the closed door, she could hear Calvin fussing and crying.

About an hour into it, she got out her cell and called her aunt’s house. The phone was still busy.

Calvin keened like a banshee.

Finally she got up and walked into the living room. Yolanda was jostling the baby on her lap while she watched TV and talked on the phone. She saw Izzy and smiled.

“Hold on a sec,” she said to the person on the other end.

“Hey,” Izzy said. “I’m thinking of going to my house.”

“Oh? No, no,” Yolanda told her. “Look, I’m talking to Jax. He lives across the hall. I’ll go over there with Chango. It’ll get quiet.” She wrinkled her nose in a moue of apology. “Okay?”

Before Izzy could reply, Yolanda disconnected, zapped the TV with the remote and said to Izzy in a motherly tone, “Now, please, mami, go back to bed. I’ll check on you in a little bit.”

Izzy complied, shuffling back into the bedroom. Her head was hurting again and she exhaled deeply as she lay down. The ticking of a clock grew louder in her ears as she settled in. She could feel herself begin to doze.

 

Allez! Vite!

Izzy’s eyes flew open at the sound of a male voice in her room.

“Yolanda, is your friend over?” she called. Maybe he had mistaken the bedroom for the bathroom or—

Isabelle!

She knew that voice. It was the man who had appeared in her dream—the second man, the one with the wild hair tumbling over his shoulders and the golden ring. The one whom she had answered, in French.

She started fumbling for the light, but she was in a strange room and she didn’t know where it was.

C’est moi, Jean-Marc de Devereaux des Ombres.

His voice was insistent, urgent. But it was inside her head. In her mind. Experimentally, she touched her head, feeling for headphones. Patting the pillow. “Who are you?” she demanded again, squinting into the darkness. “Where are you?”

A friend. Trust me. They’re looking for you.

I’ve gone crazy, she thought. But as she looked around again, she said hopefully, “Ma?”

No, I’m not Marianne. But I speak for her. I speak for Maison des Flammes…the House of the Flames. They’re searching for you. I’ll do all I can to protect you.

Suddenly a violent pain blossomed behind her eyes. With a gasp, she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose. It was so bad that she doubled over, losing her balance, and tumbled on her knees to the floor.

“Did you do that?” she yelled.

Shh. Lower your voice. They don’t know where you are. But they’re closing in.

Holding on to her bed, she got to her feet. Rubbing her forehead, she saw a rectangle of light around the venetian blinds. She stood to the side of it, then lifted the corner of the dark blue curtain and spied out onto the street below.

Her heart turned to ice.

The man in the long black coat stood across the street. He was smoking; she saw the glow of his cigarette against the dark outline of his head. He was not looking at her window; his gaze was focused a floor or two above it. But he was searching, scanning. She felt the familiar irrational dread at the sight of him.

She murmured, “Is that you or a friend of yours?”

Is someone outside?

“Yes,” she said.

Get out! Get out immediately! Don’t let him see you or you are dead!

“Okay, wait. Time out,” she said. “What the hell is going on?”

Maintenant! Vite!

“I have to get dressed—”

Non! Get out! Get out now! Move!

The man outside shifted his attention to the very window she peered out of. He threw down his cigarette and began to walk across the street.

“I need to warn Yolanda—” she began.

He won’t even notice anyone else! He wants no one but you! Get out of there!

Something inside her made her listen—she had saved her father’s life this way—and she whipped into action, bounding across the little room to the chair where she had piled her clothes.

Get out now!

She gathered up her sweater and pants, stepped into her boots and pulled on her own long black coat over the Marc Anthony T-shirt. Her purse…she couldn’t remember where it was. In the darkened bedroom? In the bathroom?

She couldn’t leave without it. Her cell phone was in it. Her money, her house key—

—and then she felt the wet velvet sensation wash over her, the same as in her bathroom—was it four nights ago? She stood stock-still, feeling like a prisoner eluding the searchlight of a prison guard tower. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy again.

The sensation passed.

Where are you? the voice demanded. Are you leaving?

“Oui,” she replied, shocking herself. She was speaking in French again.

Ah, c’est bon, he replied, and rattled off a barrage of French.

She shook her head, not understanding anything more, mincing backwards out of the bedroom.

There, in the living room: her purse lay on the sofa—turned upside down. Yolanda must have let Calvin play with it.

She grabbed it up, scooping the contents in as best she could and hurried to the front door. She opened the door and went out into the hall, shutting it behind herself.

She crossed into the hall and pounded on the door. Someone—not Yolanda—bellowed an invective and loud rock music turned on. She looked left, right, having no clue where Yolanda could be.

 

“Where? Where should I go?” she whispered, since it didn’t seem to matter how softly or how loudly she spoke. “How can you hear me? What’s going on?”

Just go!

As soundlessly as she could, she crept down the hall, which was dark except for a light flickering dimly in front of the elevator. Bad move to take it, she decided.

It began to whir. It was coming up.

She looked frantically for a stairwell. She made out the shape of a door and silently made her way toward it, felt for a latch, found it and opened the door. She took a deep breath as she stepped across the threshold. It was pitch-dark.

Closing the door soundlessly behind herself, she had a moment of vertigo. It was so dark. She was scared. She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone to call 9-1-1.

Isabelle? It was the voice inside her head. She didn’t dare answer.

The elevator dinged. Though she knew she had no way of knowing if he was in the elevator, she started down, hand in her purse. Her heart caught in her throat as she came up empty on her cell phone. She wondered if she had left it on the couch.

How many flights of stairs? She was wobbly. Her head hurt. Her hands were trembling and she was afraid her knees were going to buckle. She gripped the banister, which was metal…and sticky. She recoiled, rubbing her hand on the clothes cradled in her arm.

She heard the door above her open.

Isabelle? The voice—still inside her head—was frantic. Réspondez-moi! Answer me!

There were footsteps on the stairs.

She held on to the banister again, moving as quietly as she could, wondering if speed was more important. Down she raced, each movement a cannonball to her ears; she had no idea if the other person on the stairs could hear her at all. Part of her wanted to burst into hysterical laughter; the other part remembered that her father had almost died today and either she—or her mother’s angelic spirit—had saved him.

Now someone was trying to save her.

Or was he trying to flush her out so someone else could catch her?

The footsteps above her rang out, obviously not caring if she heard them.

As she turned another corner, she saw a horizontal sliver of light at an angle below her. It was light from beneath a door. It had to be coming in from somewhere—a service tunnel? A stoop?

Someone’s flashlight?

She looked up and over her shoulder. Saw no one.

Looked back down at the strip of light.

The voice inside her head starting yelling her name.

Isabelle! Isabelle! Isabelle!

She pushed open the door and just as quickly shut it behind herself, feeling along the latch for a way to lock it. There was none.

She wheeled around on a square of cement and stared out on a strip of snow bounded by two privacy fences. There was a six-foot-high fence at the other end.

She stepped into the snow. It went up to her calf and the cold was a shock. She rethought her plan. She was practically naked, and every movement she made would be a roadmap to her location.

She had no other choice.

She put her other foot into the snow.

Freezing, stinging fingers raked her skin as she fought to stay upright. The moonlight gleamed down on snow-covered shapes that she hoped were bushes. Improbably, there was a statue of St. Francis near the fence.

Isabelle, are you still all right?

Panting, she gasped, “All right? Aren’t you reading my mind?”

Non. I can’t. Nor can they. But it’s possible that they can hear you speaking. As I can.

Her boot came down on something hard. A rock, perhaps. Or a gun. Hard to tell in this neighborhood.

“Then it wouldn’t be wise to tell you where I am or what I’m doing.”

Most unwise.

“But do you have any advice for me? Survival tips?”

Stay out of sight. I’m coming to you as fast as I can.

The cold night wind whipped her cheeks and her boots squeaked against the snow like cornstarch rubbed between her fingers. Her purse batted against her hip. Her spine was rigid as she crossed to the rear of the yard, expecting the man in the long black coat to rush her at any moment.

Run. Run faster, she thought, reaching out and touching the waist-high, tonsured head of St. Francis as she brushed past him. Then she stood at the fence and stared up at it. There were no handholds. How was she going to climb over it?

To her right, she heard a sound, like the snapping of a twig. Her heart leaped into her throat. She slid her gaze in its direction, over to the right, where the side fence separated the yard from…what?

She heard a rushing sound. And then…footfalls thudded in snow.

Footfalls of someone running along the other side of the fence. She looked back up at the tall barrier in front of her. She reached out her hands and touched the planks, searching for some way to pull herself up. She could hear herself panting. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stop as she dropped to the ground and dug into the snow. Deep, fast; she tried to push it up over her body. Puffing with exertion, she rolled up against the base of the fence and the wood gave way like overcooked pasta. It was rotted clean through, and once she realized what that meant, she rolled hard, cupping her arms over her face and forcing her way through the wood.

She bit her lip, hard, and tasted blood as she rolled into an alley, into a pool of icy water beside a Dumpster. She almost screamed in shock.

Fighting the pain, she commando-crawled behind the large metal trash receptacle, rising unsteadily, listening hard to see if the man was following. It was difficult to hear above the chattering of her teeth.

Her bones ached; her muscles were cramping. She lurched into the alley, standing at the intersection between two two-story brick buildings. After a split-second assessment, she turned right, toward the light over the back door of what passed for a neighborhood bar. Gangsta rap pounded along with her heartbeat. Is the bar better than nothing? She didn’t know.

And then she saw the man in the long black coat standing beneath the light with his back to her, staring down the alley in the opposite direction. That made no sense. He couldn’t have gotten past her. Even if he’d taken an alternate route, he couldn’t have gotten to the bar before her.

He’s got an accomplice. Or maybe that other guy climbing the fence is the one who talks to me in my head.

She flattened herself against the wall. She was shivering so hard she was afraid she would knock the back of her head against the brick and injure herself again. She forced herself to stay focused, stay with it, stay…she started digging for her phone again. Where the hell was it?

Searching through her purse, she looked back the way she had come.

At the Dumpster.

No way, she thought. It would be the first place the coat man would look. But she felt drawn to it, staring at it as if it were a lifeboat bobbing on the surface of an icy sea.

Isabelle? I’m on my way, said the masculine voice inside her head. Are you all right? Do what you must. Be clever. Trust yourself.

That didn’t sound like he was coming to her from anywhere close. She was going to have to fend for herself.

The Dumpster it was, then, though it made no sense.

She sent a prayer heavenward. Ma, if you’re here, help me.

A burst of energy blossomed in her chest and shot throughout her body. Warmth coursed through her veins. Her muscles flexed.

Nearly out of control, she shot across the alley, grabbed the lid of the Dumpster, and lifted it with astonishing ease. She bent her knees and sprang into the air, clearing the lip of the Dumpster, then grabbing the lid as she fell back down—onto several mattresses and blankets, piled within standing height of the top of the receptacle.

Despite its weight, she was able to ease the lid shut. She fell to her knees on the teeter-totter of cushions, then onto her hands. Panic rolled over her and she shut her eyes tightly, bracing herself for discovery.

It didn’t come.

She felt in the dark for her purse. Felt everywhere. Fresh panic welled but she fought it down as she moved hand over hand, coming up empty on the purse but laying hands on a soft woolly blanket. She wrapped it around herself because if she didn’t, she was going to cry out from the pain of the chill. She rolled herself in more blankets, soaking in the warmth, crawling to the corner of the pitch-black Dumpster. She pulled herself into a tight ball to retain her body heat, shifting away from the frigid metal casing.

Isabelle? came the voice again.

She didn’t respond. All she had now was her wits—and the voice. Maybe the men in the long coats were the good guys and the man in her head was the perp. She didn’t know.

Isabelle? Answer me! Are you all right?

Shivering in the dark, she maintained her silence.

Uploaded by Coral

C urled into a fetal position, Izzy wiped the grit from her eyes. Her head was throbbing. She was hungry and colder than she had ever been in her entire life. She had slithered off the Marc Anthony T-shirt and put on her street clothes. Like the shirt, they were soaked with ice water and no source of warmth. She was sorely tempted to get naked, but that would be foolhardy at best.

The Dumpster, which she had feared would be a trap, had become her refuge. It didn’t smell. There was no garbage, and while the blankets were musty, they were not mildewed. Someone had been living here, and she guessed the sanitation workers and businesses in the alley had looked the other way, maybe even helped out.

She didn’t want to leave it.

She huddled, telling herself that someone would come for her. Fleetingly, she envisioned a joyful reunion with her father. Her bed, and something hot to drink…soup…

Isabelle, for the love of all you hold dear, answer me!

He was pissed off. And a little on the melodramatic side. And if he was so damn interested in her safety, where the hell was he?

She listened for sounds of the world outside and heard none. She had no idea how long she had hidden inside the Dumpster. It was no warmer, which made her suspect the sun had not risen. If she waited long enough…

But she knew, bone-deep, that it was time to leave.

Hunched over, she got to her feet, spreading her legs and steadying herself. She raised her arms and flattened her palms against the underside of the lid, took a breath and pushed.

The lid flew back as if it were a feather, and slammed wide open with a deafening clang. Wincing, Izzy shut her eyes tight, then opened them.

The yellow-blurred ceiling of the borough nightlights illuminated her surroundings. Across the alley, a couple of frosted windows on the second story gleamed with light. Most, however, had been broken.

Wrapped in a double thickness of blankets, she awkwardly made her way to the side, glomming onto it like a kid just learning to ice skate at a rink. She hoisted a leg over and lay along the metal lip on her stomach as she scanned her surroundings. The vista below was nothing but a vast expanse of blackness.

Swinging her other leg over, she let herself fall, remembering from her self-defense classes to bend her knees and stay as loose as she could for the impact.

Beside her ankle, her purse rested in a snowdrift. She grabbed it, digging inside for her cell phone. There!

The faceplate was dark. She depressed the on switch and just as quickly hit the sound control to silence it.

Nothing happened. She tried it again as she craned her head toward the fence, looking to see how obvious the damage was.

There was no sign of the hole she had created with her body.

She blinked. She was tempted to walk closer to inspect it, but there was no time.

Isabelle? It’s Jean-Marc.

She didn’t respond. Instead she concentrated on her non-working cell phone as she loped toward the left, where sounds of traffic held out the promise—or was it the threat?—of pedestrians. The battery should have plenty of charge, but nothing worked, not even calling the number for customer support.

Pulling her blanket around herself, using part of it to make a hood that hid her face, she stayed to the shadows, jogging easily now, as a freshet of energy warmed her. She emerged from the alley, her heart scudding. There were a few scuzzy pedestrians standing in a ring around a fire crackling in a fifty-gallon drum. All of them were men who had seen much better days.

One of them turned, saw her.

“Hey, baby,” he said, “wha’s happnin’?”

“I need a cell phone,” she said boldly.

“Hey, I need a job,” he shot back. The others laughed. “But you c’mere and I’ll make you forget your troubles.”

I know self-defense, she reminded herself.

And the first rule of self-defense was to run whenever you had the chance.

She darted to the right, heading away from the men, who started laughing and hooting at her. Her legs and feet were numb; she heard her boot crunch down on glass as she staggered forward. She reached out a steadying hand toward a nearby lamppost, submerging herself in a pool of watery light. As her fingers brushed the metal post, the lamp flickered and buzzed. Then it winked out, casting Izzy in darkness.

A frisson of fear crept up the back of her neck, making her hair stand on edge.

Then she saw him.

The man in the long coat was standing across the street at a bus stop and he was staring straight ahead.

She pulled the blanket more closely around her face and turned her head. The blanket’s satiny edging brushed against her cheek as she backed into the next alley. Watching him, she shivered so hard it hurt to breathe.

Then…he was gone. He had disappeared as if by magic.

Frantic, she scrutinized the area around the bus stop, expecting to see the bottom of his coat as he blended into the waiting crowd of perhaps a dozen people.

Then a gloved hand snaked around her face, covering her mouth, as she was dragged backward into the alley.

She kicked, tried to bite; she pistoned her arms backward, jabbing with her elbows. She connected with a hard, flat chest; her attacker was a man. She raised her right leg up and then extended it backward, attempting to smash her boot into his leg. She only succeeded in throwing herself off balance, pitching forward; she took advantage of her momentum and drooped her torso toward the ground, tucking in her head as she executed a forward roll.

Her assailant was unprepared; he sailed over her head and flopped hard onto his back. He still had hold of her; she was facing away from him as she landed on his chest. She heard the whoosh of air as his lungs expelled all the oxygen they contained.

She tried to throw herself forward, out of his grasp, pumping her legs and arms crazily. He held on tight.

“Fire!” she shouted, because no one came if you called for help. “Fire in the alley!”

Then something shimmered in the air before her, the way heat vibrations undulated off car hoods and cement sidewalks in the heat of summer. It looked like Fourth of July sparklers, only they were purple, buzzing and hissing as she kicked and jabbed, successfully breaking the man’s grip. She flung herself forward between his legs and scrabbled away as fast as she could.

He sat up and grabbed her around the waist again. She twisted to the left, crunching her abdominal muscles as she dove at an angle, trying to rip herself out of his grasp.

“Let go of me! Let go!” she yelled at the man.

Then her leg somehow connected with his face. He grunted and released her.

She rolled over onto her butt and crab-walked away from him. He came after her, scrabbling forward like a spider; she saw with horror that he had a purple scar across his face and blank, crescent-shaped eyes. The man of her nightmares; the man who had watched her house.

Reflexively, she folded her fingers over and pressed her thumb against the first knuckle of her forefinger. She slammed her hand into his nose with a sharp Tae Kwon Do palm strike.

To her complete shock, he sailed backward, arcing into the air until he slammed hard against a row of metal trash cans. As he hit the cans, they tipped and rolled, spewing garbage into the alley. Half a dozen rats squeaked, fleeing their feast.

The man didn’t move. His neck was canted at a terrible angle and his eyes stared glassily at her. Bathed in moonlight, he looked unnatural, like a toppled statue.

I barely touched him, Izzy thought, staring from the inert man to her hand.

She sucked in her breath. Her palm was glowing. She cried out, thinking she was on fire, and plunged her arm into the snow.

The man did not blink, did not move. His chest did not rise, did not fall.

No lights blazed. No doors opened. No one came to investigate.

I killed him.

She turned and retched into the filthy snow. Something dribbled down the side of her face; numbly, she touched it. Blood. Her bandage was gone. Her stitches had pulled open.

The man still did not move. Then snow began to fall. Crystals fluttered onto his open eye. It was the most unnerving thing she had seen so far.

Her head fell forward. She was completely drained and terribly afraid.

Without warning, making no noise of any kind, someone came up beside her and clamped a large, male-size hand on her shoulder. As she opened her mouth to scream, he leaned over and pressed his other hand over her mouth, as her first assailant had done, and said quickly into her ear, “Isabelle, I’m Jean-Marc.”

Even though she recognized his voice, she began to struggle, falling to the right, and in the action, turned her face toward his. His strong, steady gaze stopped her as surely as his hand across her mouth prevented her from calling out.

Here was the man with the long hair. He wore shadows: a black coat, black sweater, black pants. His eyes gleamed with the same darkness; his hair tumbled with the same wildness; his features were harsh and his skin, somewhere between olive and light brown. He had high cheekbones, deep hollows, and heavy brows. Everything was sharp, extreme, like a hawk. Like her, he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling.

“Will you scream?” he asked her.

She shook her head and he released her.

Pointing to the corpse lying in the snow, she said in a rush, “I killed him!”

“You can’t kill something that was never alive.” At her look, he said, “I’ll explain everything. But you have to get away from here.”

He urged her to her feet. She stared at the body, unsure whether to approach it and check for vitals or simply to run. She said to Jean-Marc without looking at him, “Do you have a cell phone?”

“It won’t work.” She frowned at him, not believing him. He said, “This place is warded. Your cell phone can’t penetrate the barrier I’ve put in place.”

He swept his gaze up and down her body; defiantly, she pulled her blanket closer.

“You’re freezing,” he said. He took off his heavy wool coat and wrapped it around her, holding it out so that she could slip her hands into the sleeves. She didn’t argue with him. She was so cold she could hardly stand it.

“We need to call 9-1-1,” she insisted, ignoring his wacko spiel about why her phone wouldn’t work.

He shook his head. “You know we aren’t going to the police.”

She scowled at him, taking a step away. “I know nothing of the kind.”

“They can’t be involved.”

“Because?”

“Because this isn’t their domain.”

She raised her hand, angling her palm at his face the way she had done with the other man. The one she had killed with a glowing palm strike.

He pushed her arm down.

“You can’t do it again, not for a while.” He took her by the arm, studying the alley, the street behind them, the rooftops. “We have to leave,” he said urgently, his attention resting on a fire escape before moving back to her. “They still don’t know what you look like. But they’ve sensed you.”

She splayed her hand over his and tried to pry his fingers off the sleeve of his coat.

“Who? How do you know that? What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll show you later. We’ll go this way. I don’t trust the street.” He started to lead her deeper into the alley, past the body that—

The body that was no longer there.

She gaped, rooted to the spot. “He’s gone!”

“Later,” he said, his voice rising impatiently. He frowned at her, tugging at her. “Allons-y. Vite!”

“I don’t think so.” She raised her free hand into the air, snaked it under his wrist, made a half turn in the air toward him; she made a double fist, twisted it and broke free. Then she wheeled around and sprinted away.

“There’s a fire in the alley!” she yelled. “Call the fire department! Call 9-1-1!”

“Non! Isabelle!” he shouted.

She kept running, pumping her arms and legs as she put as much distance between herself and him as she could. She slipped and slid in the snow, gritting her teeth, not daring to take the time to look behind her.

“Stop now!” he bellowed.

Then something smacked into the center of her back. The force was like being hit by a sack of bricks. It propelled her forward; her head snapped back and she hit the snow.

 

The tunnel was beautiful, the white light glowing inside welcoming, joyous.

Izzy flew toward it, her arms outstretched, her hair streaming back over her shoulders. All earthly cares dropped away; she was buoyant and joyful, surrounded by high, sweet voices half singing, half murmuring.

A petite figure waited at the other end; it was a feminine shape, made of the same white light as the tunnel. Were those wings?

“Ma?” Izzy whispered. Her heart expanded in her chest; she could feel it beating with so much love—

 

“For God’s sake, stop!” shrieked a feminine voice with a thick Bronx accent. “She’s freakin’ back, ok?”

Coughing hard, Izzy opened her eyes. Jean-Marc’s face loomed over hers; to the left and sideways, the face of a young woman peered down at her. She wore stark white makeup, black eyeliner and lashes, and dark red lipstick. Her hair was shoe-polish black streaked with indigo blue.

“Guardienne,” she said reverently. “How the hell are you?”

Dizzy, disoriented, Izzy ticked her gaze from the girl in the white makeup to Jean-Marc. He was straddling her; still in her sopping pants, she was naked from the waist up. His hands were pressed together over her heart, the meat of his hands compressing the tops of her bare breasts. He had been performing CPR on her.

“Get off me,” she said in a gravelly voice as she felt the heat of his crotch pressed against her own.

“I had no choice,” he said. It was not precisely an apology, and she wasn’t sure what it was in reference to—the attack, her nakedness or the CPR. She felt muzzy and confused. She had no idea where they were.

And then she remembered that he had attacked her when she had tried to run.

She remained silent as he eased himself off her, fingertips grazing her rib cage. He rose, standing beside the girl, who was evidently a goth. She was dressed in a blood-red bustier laced with black leather strings, a black lace skirt and black velvet lace-up ankle boots.

Sitting up slowly—the room was spinning—and covering her breasts, Izzy said to the young woman, “Call the cops now. This man assaulted me.”

The woman grimaced. “Actually? He kind of just saved your life.” Her accent was thick; she sounded like the actress Fran Drescher. She turned to Jean-Marc. “Sorry I was rude. But it’s like way bad to do CPR on someone who doesn’t need it.”

“Indeed,” Jean-Marc replied calmly, his gaze on Izzy. “Thank you.”

A microwave dinged and the woman’s grimace changed to a cheery smile. “Ah! That’ll be your dinner.”

With a strange little curtsy aimed in Izzy’s direction, she swept stage left. Pulling herself together, struggling overtime to focus, Izzy watched to see where the door was, but Jean-Marc blocked her view as he gingerly reapproached, holding out a white sweater shot through with gold threads.

“If you’ll take off your pants, we can give you some dry ones,” he offered.

Warily she grabbed the sweater and pulled it on over her head as he averted his gaze. Amazingly, she was beginning to feel more clear-headed, her disorientation fading as the dry, soft sweater slid over her skin.

“My pants stay on. Talk,” she ordered him in a steady voice, although she was terrified.

They were in what appeared to be an octagonal room, and the walls were covered floor-to-ceiling with dark wood bookcases loaded with thick, leather-bound volumes. A ladder tilted at an angle against the topmost row. A brass chandelier gleamed above their heads.

She was seated on a thick, rich carpet woven with a central design of the head of a young woman wearing a knight’s helmet. Where a feather might have decorated the top of the helmet, a flaming sword stood instead.

Jean-Marc held out a hand to help her up. She refused it, crossing her arms and legs, signaling her intention to stay put. The truth was, she was too shaky to stand. But she didn’t want him to know that. She wanted to show no signs of weakness in front of him.

“We can get you a robe,” he said.

Determined not to let her chattering teeth embarrass her, she remained silent.

He sighed. Then he crossed his ankles and sank down to the carpet, facing her. He moved with fluid grace, and he was near enough for her to feel his body heat, smell his scent. It was faint but spicy, conjuring up the exotic fragrance of the herbs Yolanda steeped at work, following Dr. Wei’s prescriptions.

His features were sharp, almost harsh. His nose long, his cheekbones very high. His eyes were black, unfathomable pools. He had a five-o’clock shadow, and his black, curly hair was all over the place, tumbling over his shoulders like some eighties pop star.

Or like her hair.

Everything about him, the entire quirky assemblage, merged into the most breathtakingly handsome man she had ever met. No surprise; according to Catholic tradition, Lucifer had been the fairest of God’s angels. And this man, who had acted at first like an angel of mercy, was most definitely on her list of the damned. He had attacked her. Practically killed her.

“I’m sorry I had to do that to you,” he began. “This is neutral territory and the laws don’t apply.”

“The laws,” she said. So he was a sociopath—someone who believed the rules of civilized society didn’t apply to him.

“Of magic,” he concluded. “I didn’t know how powerful my energy sphere would be. It was only meant to stop you, not to harm you.”

Correction: not a sociopath. A wack job.

He inclined his head. “I had to get you out of there before something happened to you.”

“Because stopping my heart with your…whatever…didn’t fit your definition of something happening to me,” she stated, deadpan.

He exhaled, and she wasn’t sure if he was irritated with her or frustrated with himself. He scooted slightly toward her.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice was as hard as she could make it.

“It’s ready!” the young woman announced, skipping back into the room, carrying a plate with both hands. There was the door; it was covered by rows of books so that it blended into the rest of the room.

“Ici, merci,” Jean-Marc said, beckoning her over.

The woman dimpled. With a flourish, she handed the plate down to him, making a show of displaying her ample cleavage. “It’s leftovers,” she told Izzy apologetically. “He does most of the cooking. It’s got red meat in it. I’m a vegan.”

There were several thinly sliced pieces of rare beef drizzled with what smelled like a sauce of mushrooms and wine. New potatoes and some slivers of green beans. For a single beat, Izzy thought about knocking it out of his hand, just to make a point. But she was hungry. And she had to keep up her strength.

“I’m Sauvage,” the woman told Izzy. She dipped another curtsy. “Well, actually, my name is Jesse, without an ‘i.’ Greenfield. An ‘i’ in that. But I didn’t think it sounded exotic enough.”

Seeing Izzy hesitate, she gestured to her food and said, “It’s really good. Well, I didn’t try the meat, of course, but the potatoes and the beans rock.”

“It’s safe,” Jean-Marc said, perhaps sensing the underlying reason for her hesitation. He reached forward and plucked a green bean from her plate, popping it into his mouth.

“Totally,” Sauvage agreed, snatching up a potato. She nibbled on it. Her nails were black. “See? Yummy.”

Izzy stabbed a piece of meat with her fork. The morsel was rich and fragrant, and her salivary glands kicked into high gear. She could feel how ravenous she was. She had to ignore the impulse to shovel all of it into her mouth.

She said quietly, “Exotic enough for what?”

Sauvage looked confused and glanced at Jean-Marc. He gestured to her food. “Eat. There’s plenty of time for questions.”

Izzy lowered her fork to the plate and glared at him. “Oh, you are so wrong about that.”

Sauvage shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t get it,” she said to Jean-Marc. “It’s like she doesn’t know or something.”

“Doesn’t know what?” Izzy demanded. “If this is some kind of ritual kidnapping…” She glanced at Sauvage’s goth clothes. “Like you need to drink someone’s blood…”

Sauvage pressed her hands over her mouth. “Oh, my God! How gross!”

Jean-Marc shook his head. “It’s nothing like that, I assure you.” To the woman, he said, “Sauvage, would you be so kind as to bring us some wine?”

“I’ll have water,” Izzy cut in.

“Some water and wine,” Jean-Marc said.

“Pas de problem,” Sauvage said, with a lot of the Bronx thrown in. She left the room again.

Izzy shifted straightening her spine; seeing her, Jean-Marc knit his brows. “Does your back hurt?”

“Everything hurts,” she replied icily. “Look, put me in a cab and no questions asked.”

He regarded her with his large, sad eyes. “You know I can’t do that.”

“You sure as hell better do it. My father’s a cop with the NYPD. As soon as he realizes that I’m missing, he’ll tear this town apart until he finds me. And then he’ll tear you apart. Because Big Vince DeMarco—”

“He won’t,” Jean-Marc interrupted her. At her confusion, he said, “He won’t realize you’re missing.” Before she could respond, he said, “That assassin you destroyed—”

“That man I killed—”

“Non,” Jean-Marc said emphatically. He leaned forward and took her face between his hands. She tried to free herself, but he held her tightly, bringing his face within inches of her own. His eyes blazed with intensity. As his hands cupped her, warmth spread from them into her skin and she felt her tension ebbing the smallest little bit.

“Non, you did not kill it. It was a created thing.” He moved his hands, as if conjuring something out of thin air. “It’s called a fabricant. It was created with magic. When the magic ran out, it ceased to be.”

“He was flesh and bone,” she argued, the chills skittering down her spine as she remembered the fight and the way she had flung him across the alley.

How did I do that?

“It was created to kill you,” Jean-Marc agreed, “but magical forces go awry here. This is Borgia territory, and since they disappeared, it’s neutral ground and…” He trailed off. “You have no idea what I’m talking about. You’ve lived among the Ungifted all your life.”

“Here’s the wine,” Sauvage said, returning. She carried a wine bottle and two glasses. A sports bottle was tucked under her arm. “And some water for the Guardienne.” She dimpled; she seemed about to burst with excitement. She reminded Izzy of Yolanda, so eager to take care of her.

“Merci,” Jean-Marc said. He dropped his hands away from Izzy’s face. He skillfully pulled out the cork and poured the two glasses full while Sauvage unscrewed the plastic cap on the bottle of water and ceremoniously handed it to Izzy. Izzy drank deeply. She was parched.

Holding one of the wineglasses out to her, he said, “Please.”

She only stared at him; with a sigh, he set the glass back down on the carpet. He sipped his wine appreciatively. Cradling the glass against his chest, he extended his hand and held his fingers a hairbreadth away from the cut on her temple. She jerked backward; he persisted.

His lips moved but he made no sound. She felt her eyes grow heavy. She fought to keep them open; but it was a battle that she lost.

The pounding in her head lessened, then vanished altogether.

She opened her eyes again, strangely refreshed.

“I mean you no harm.” His cheeks reddened, a sure sign that he was lying.

“Back to my father not missing me.”

“We know he’s in the hospital,” Jean-Marc said.

“How do you know that?” she asked, frightened for Big Vince. Her mind jumped to the tenement fire and her hackles rose to full-alarm state. “Did you have anything to do with that fire? Or the shooter?”

“Non, I assure you,” he said. “I swear it.”

She didn’t believe him. “Yolanda—”

He cut her off. “Yolanda thinks you got tired of all the noise and went home.”

She was even more freaked out. “You know this because—”

“She called your home phone and left a message. She thinks you’re asleep in your bed.”

“You tapped my phone? Are you CIA?” A worse thought occurred to her: that this was some elaborate scheme John Cratty had set up because he was dirty and he had gleaned that she had suspicions about him.

“I’m not with the CIA,” he said.

“Then how do you know all this stuff?” she demanded, her voice rising shrilly.

“I know these things from using scrying stones,” he replied. He held her gaze steadily, as if mentally willing her to listen to him. “And magic mirrors.”

He’s crazy.

I’m dead.

“Magic mirrors,” she said carefully. “Did you buy them on the Sci-Fi channel?” Bad move; she was in no position to ridicule anything he had to say.

“Don’t make jokes,” he said, flaring with anger. She saw a bad temper and she was even more wary of him.

“What do you expect? You kidnap me, and this…this girl from Rocky Horror—”

“Hey,” Sauvage said, hurt. Izzy hadn’t realized she was still in the room. She had moved behind Izzy, where she appeared to be reading the spines of the books in the bookcase.

“Sauvage, please,” Jean-Marc said. “We need to be alone.”

The girl huffed. Then she flounced out of the room.

“You kidnap me,” Izzy continued, forcing her voice to stay steady.

“No. I saved your life.” A muscle twitched in his cheek and she could see that he was frustrated nearly beyond his ability to control himself. She tried to see things from his point of view and decided not to. Because his point of view included magic mirrors.

“I know too much of this is beyond your understanding. But you have to try to listen and understand.”

Standing down a little, he took another swallow of wine as he considered how to proceed. She could practically see the synapses firing in his brain.

She wanted to get the hell out of here.

“You think I’m lying when I say I mean you no harm,” he said. “What I mean is, that I’m sorry I have to come for you. I wish you could stay ignorant of who you are. But it’s not possible. They know you’re here.”

His face was grim. “And we believe they mean to kill you.”

“T hey,” Izzy repeated slowly, as she faced Jean-Marc in the octagonal room. She kept her cool. But inside, she quaked. The room had just turned ten degrees colder, and she was scared. “They who? Kill me why?”

“We think it’s the Malchances. But we’re not sure.” At her blank expression, he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he had inherited her headache. “Let me try a different tack.”

Staring at her, he raised his right hand in line with his chest and laid the left one over it. Squaring his shoulders, he held his head high. He began to speak in a steady monotone, like a chant, in words that sounded like Latin.

The room plunged into darkness.

A curtain of hazy light appeared between them. She looked up toward the ceiling. There was no apparent aperture from which it could have descended. She studied the floor. Nothing there, either. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Still, she was not overly impressed. She had seen a lot of high-end technology.

He whispered, “Please, watch. I’ll take you home afterward.”

“Right,” she muttered.

“I will. But you have to watch.”

Could it really be that simple? “Okay, it’s a deal.”

Shapes appeared on the screen and gradually snapped into focus. She saw a woman in a long, shapeless white dress, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her eyes were bruised and she was crying.

Wrenching as the image was, Izzy knew she had to make the most of the moment. She looked away from the screen and located the door. Jean-Marc was closer to it than she was. She couldn’t hope to outrun him. And who knew where Sauvage was? Maybe she was standing outside the door with a gun. Maybe after the movie was over they were going to blow her head off.

“You made a deal,” Jean-Marc accused her, speaking across the barrier between them.

“You know, you’re really pissing me off,” she hissed.

“Tais-toi.”

Seething, but frightened, she looked back at the screen. The woman on the screen was wiping her eyes. Jean-Marc said, “It is Rouen, in France. In 1431. This is Joan of Arc. Do you know who she was?”

“Vaguely. I’m more certain that Columbus landed in America in 1492.”

He sighed and said, “This isn’t going to work.”

She heard the sharp snap of his fingers and the lights in the room came back on.

His scent teased her. He was standing inches away from her, looking down on her. He gazed at her for a long moment. She felt a spark, a connection, and there was nothing in her that wanted that.

Nothing, and everything.

He said to her, “We are descendants of noble French houses, you and I. I am de Devereaux. You are de Bouvard.”

“You’ve got the wrong woman,” she snapped. “I’m DeMarco. Italian on both sides.”

He hesitated. She really didn’t like that pause. It scared her even worse.

He said, “The ‘de’ signifies nobility. For that reason, among French speakers, we often drop the ‘de’ and simply use our last names. I assume that’s not the case with DeMarco.”

Then he continued.

“We began in France, in the early 1400s. The King of France, Charles VI, was insane, and his heir had been assassinated. The country was fragmented. Nobles were backing their own candidate for the crown. And a bloody civil war broke out. Joan of Arc fought on the side of the Armagnacs.”

She shifted, but she kept listening. He was unbelievably tense; she could read it in his walk, the clench of his jaw.

“Three of the noble houses embroiled in the chaos were the Malchances, the Bouvards and the Devereaux. The Bouvards openly fought in Joan of Arc’s army, and Bouvard nobles died by the score for her cause.”

“The Bouvards. That would be ‘my’ noble house.” She made air quotes.

He picked up his wineglass from the carpet. He took a long swallow and began to pace. His profile against the leather books reminded her of the paintings of warriors and kings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She didn’t want to be fascinated by him. She didn’t want any of this. She just wanted to go home and resume her normal life.

“After she was defeated in battle and delivered to the English, Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for witchcraft,” he informed her. “It was a trumped-up charge.”

“Well, that goes without saying,” she drawled, but her voice was not as steady as she had hoped.

He ignored her.

“The Duchess de Bouvard did everything she could to save her. I’m not certain why the Bouvards were so loyal to Joan, but they never turned their backs on her. Others did. The Malchances lobbied for her death. My own house remained neutral.”

“Which means you did turn your back on her,” she interjected. She had seen a lot of “neutrality” in her professional life—social workers who wouldn’t take a stand against a foster parent when abuse was apparent. Bystanders who pretended not to hear, not to see, when a crime was committed. So they could stay uninvolved. Neutral.

He clenched his jaw for a moment before continuing.

“While all this was going on, the Malchances experimented with black magic. They raised a demon named Malfeur, and he became their patron.”

Her lips parted at this further evidence of his insanity, but she maintained her silence.

“My family, the Devereaux, made a similar treaty with a powerful demon who was neither precisely evil nor precisely good. He is called le Roi Gris.”

“The Gray King,” she ventured, not knowing how she knew that. “Shades of gray, not black, not white.”

He paused again and, again, the connection zinged between them. It was like an electric current, not so much a shock as a low-level vibration. The little hairs on her neck rose; her gut told her that as pleasant as the sensation was, it was as dangerous as a live wire.

“Oui,” he said slowly. Did he feel it, too?

When she said nothing more, he continued. “Our families gained magical surnames. The Malchances are the House of the Blood—du Sang. The Devereaux are the House of the Shadows. So, I am Jean-Marc de Devereaux des Ombres.”

“Ombres means shadows in French.”

He leaned forward. “Did you study French in school?”

“No,” she said shortly. “Never. Go on.”

“Bon. Joan of Arc was defeated and sentenced for execution. Before Joan—we call her Jehanne—died, the Duchess de Bouvard visited her alone. The duchess was moved by Joan’s honor and courage even as she faced a horrible death, and she swore that her house would always fight to protect the weak and downtrodden, in her name.

“In return, Joan—so tradition claims—called on the angels to bestow the essence of her strength and courage on the duchess. This essence has been passed since that time through the generations, from one Bouvard female to another. So, in honor of their benefactress, the Bouvards became known in magical circles as the House of the Flames.”

“Magical circles,” Izzy said. “Like…Sauvage’s friends down at the Anne Rice is My Goddess goth club.”

“Sauvage found me through the Internet,” he allowed. “She contacted me, and offered me her services in New York. I have a lot of Ungifted allies.”

She ignored the urge to ask him what services those were. “Ungifted.” She gestured to the shelves and shelves of books. “Where’s the dictionary?”

“Let me finish, please. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have to.”

She resumed her silence, realizing that rather than bait him, she should let him speak freely. She didn’t believe him for a minute when he promised to take her home. But maybe if she listened to him long enough, she’d learn something that would help her formulate a plan of escape.

“There are magical groups all over the world,” he said. “Some are traditional families. Some are clans. There are Asian ones, African, American. We’ve formed a governing body, sort of like the UN. It’s called the Grand Covenate. We granted each other territories, and we agreed to keep our existence a secret.”

“But something happened,” she guessed.

“Yes.” He regarded her steadily, his features softening. His cheeks went red again and she knew that he didn’t want to tell her whatever he was going to say next. His anxiety communicated itself and she braced herself for bad news.

“Isabelle, haven’t you made the connection? You are the heiress of Joan of Arc’s legacy. You are the daughter of the House of the Flames.”

She believed him.

For six seconds.

And then she said, “A deal is a deal. It’s time to go home.”

He blinked at her as if he couldn’t process what he was hearing.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m here to protect you, and serve as your guide, until you’re ready to assume the Crown of the Flames. I have to teach you so much. You know nothing….” He sounded overwhelmed.

“Why you?” she asked bluntly.

He knelt on one knee, a quick, easy movement that while attractive, she found completely bizarre and inappropriate.

“I’m Regent for the Bouvards. It fell to me to come for you.”

“Because…?”

You are the only hope of the Bouvards, Isabelle, he said inside her head.

She jerked. “You said you’d take me home.”

He tilted back his face. His lips were pursed in a straight line and his thick brows drew together above his nose. There was an air of restrained power about him, as if every punch he had thrown was substantially pulled. A guy like that on her side would be awesome.

A guy like that on the other side…a nightmare.

He said, “If they sent one assassin to kill you, they can send another.”

“You mentioned something about warding the area. That means protecting it, correct?”

There was a glimmer in his eyes, registering, maybe, that she might actually believe him.

“And I said something about the unpredictability of magic here in New York,” he added. “I can’t be certain my wards will hold.”

“Of course not,” she said kindly.

“It’s true.” He stared at her. She felt something shift in the air, as it had shifted at Mass and at the subway station. As if he were probing her. She felt naked.

“Believe me,” he whispered.

“Oh, I do.” She crossed her arms, cutting off all further discussion.

His face fell, but it was still the face of an angel. Wearily, he nodded. Then he got to his feet. His posture was perfect; and the way he moved telegraphed advanced knowledge of some kind of martial arts. If she had to use street smarts to get out of here, she might be in trouble.

Might be? She was already in deep, deep trouble.

He called, “Sauvage? Viens ici.”

The goth darted into the room so fast that Izzy knew she’d been listening at the door.

Jean-Marc said to the girl, “Please get Ms. DeMarco some dry clothes.”

“But…” There were no creases in Sauvage’s heavy makeup as she frowned. “She’s…Ms. Bouvard.”

Izzy tapped her fingertips against her elbow and said, “Get me something now. I’ll give back your sweater after I get home.” And call the cops and see these two in jail.

“Vite, Sauvage,” Jean-Marc said grittily. Then, to Izzy, “The sweater was purchased for you. We’ll get you a coat, as well.”

“There’s a whole closetful of cool clothes for you,” Sauvage said wistfully. “And an awesome canopy bed. I helped him shop for it.” Her smile was devilish, her red mouth a caricature against her white skin. “I tested the mattresses.”

Izzy’s gaze ticked from Sauvage to Jean-Marc. Jean-Marc gazed back at Sauvage impassively.

“All right,” she said, sighing like a little girl forbidden to play. “I’ll get her some pants.”

 

A few minutes later Izzy was fully dressed in blessedly dry black wool pants that fit her as if they had been made for her. She also had warm black wool socks. Now Sauvage was off to get her some new boots.

Meanwhile, Jean-Marc escorted Izzy into another room. The only piece of furniture in it was a stone altar. Three brass bells, a white candle and a gray one, and a brazier wafting incense were scattered on the flat stone surface as if in no apparent order.

A white marble vase held a single lily. A white candle floated in an alabaster bowl before a Barbie-size statue of a woman dressed in battle armor. There was another figure beside St. Joan—or so she guessed it to be St. Joan, this one far more primitive, a sort of hazy male figure—and Izzy thought she saw it move as Jean-Marc knelt before it. The candle in front of it was blue.

Did not, did not, did not. Their group hysteria is not contagious.

The walls were bare except for two Medieval tapestries. One depicted a black-haired woman wearing a halo being burned at the stake. The other showed a castle turret surrounded by clouds. A white dove was flying out of the gray arched window. A hand in a heavy gray glove was outstretched behind it—releasing it or trying to catch it?

Sauvage returned with boots and also a beautiful pair of black chandelier earrings. Those Izzy declined, but she took the boots.

Holding the earrings in her palm, Sauvage said to Jean-Marc, “What about the ring?”

“Not yet,” Jean-Marc replied.

Then, while Izzy looked on, he performed a series of elaborate incantations and spells. Sauvage assisted him, picking up and ringing the bells, walking around the altar with each candle stretched before her; it was reminiscent of Mass. Izzy thought maybe Jean-Marc was speaking in an ancient form of Latin from the thick leather-bound book Sauvage held open for him, but she couldn’t be sure. His voice was deep and fervent, almost vibrating inside her own chest.

She thought more than once about trying to get out of the room. But each time her gaze strayed to the door, she felt Jean-Marc’s eyes on her.

The room was warm, the candlelight soft and comforting. A glow enveloped her, tugging at her to relax. She resisted with everything in her. This was certainly not the time or place to let down her guard.

“In the name of St. Joan and the Gray King,” Jean-Marc concluded in English as he bowed before the altar.

Sauvage bowed, as well. Then the two said, “Amen.”

Sauvage smiled at Izzy as she smoothed back her hair and tugged at her bustier, saying, “Wasn’t that cool?”

Izzy made no reply. Then Jean-Marc said, “Isabelle and I need to be alone now.”

“Aw.” Sauvage pouted.

“No, we don’t,” Izzy countered, alarmed.

“We do.” He ticked his head at Sauvage, who left the room and closed the door after herself.

“I am leaving this room now,” Izzy said, walking toward him, since he was closer to the door.

He took a step toward her. “Wait.”

She considered her options. He could tackle her if she tried to get around him. What about her palm weapon?

She raised it up, and he tensed. She closed her eyes and willed energy from it.

Nothing happened.

Damn.

She lowered her arm and said, “Okay, now what?”

He studied Izzy for a moment. Then he scratched his cheek and muttered in French, glancing over at the statue on the altar. He cocked his head as if listening to a reply.

Oh, my God, Izzy thought. He’s schizophrenic.

He looked back at her. Then he scratched his cheek again and cocked his head appraisingly. His scent wafted toward her again; it stirred her.

She didn’t want any stirring.

“I’ll be blindfolded,” he mused. “That might work.”

“Are you talking to the space brothers, or can anyone join in?” she asked him.

He didn’t react. “In many magical traditions, sex magic is the strongest form.”

“Stop.” She held out her hand again, forced it steady. More adrenaline drenched her nerves, igniting her fight-or-flight response. She still wasn’t a hundred percent and she wasn’t really much of a street fighter. A few self-defense moves did not add up to disabling a big man like him long enough to get the door open, race through the apartment, get to the front door and get out, all without knowing what Sauvage might do—and if there were other people in the apartment she hadn’t yet encountered. Insanity like this usually traveled in cults.

She took a breath and added, “Sex magic? If you think that for one second, I’m buying that—”

“I won’t force myself on you,” he said. “If we don’t have sex, the next best thing is proximity while naked.”

All she could do was gape at him. Alarm bells were shrieking in her ears. If she launched a simple physical attack, would the element of surprise work in her favor? Was her palm strike sufficiently “recharged” now?

“Did you run this con on Sauvage? And it worked? Which is why you’re imagining there’s a point to even trying it out on me?” she asked him, her voice scathing, contemptuous.

“You can blindfold me,” he said. “I won’t see you.”

“While you sit close to me, naked.” She pressed her fingertips against her forehead. Her headache was pounding against her temples again. “That’s a major kink you’ve got going, friend.”

He looked as if he might smile, but he didn’t. “I would offer to let you handcuff me, but frankly, I don’t trust you enough. You’d probably try to choke me to death.”

“Damn. There you go, reading my mind again.” Folding her arms over her chest, she put some more distance between the two of them, moving toward the door. Smacking up against the altar, she unfolded her arms and flattened her palm on the stone surface for support.

“All this bravado is unnecessary,” he said flatly. “Nothing will happen.”

“Then why bother?” She inched her hand toward the statue of St. Joan. “You promised to take me home. Keep your promise.” She closed her hand around the base of the figure.

He looked past her face to a place above her head, his gaze traveling to one side of her, moving down her body. She flushed and tightened her grip on the statue.

“You’re sending out waves of magical energy,” he said. “Can’t you see them?”

There was no way she was going to take her eyes off him for a second. And yet, she did feel a strange warmth…and she thought she saw a white spark or two in her peripheral vision.

“We have to conceal them,” he said, “or you may as well wear a bull’s-eye on your chest. You’re a target, pure and simple. Unless we hide what you are, they’ll be after you again. And this time, they’ll be able to track you better.”

“They did okay tracking me to Yolanda’s,” she said.

“Your powers have been awakening these past few days. I don’t know how else to describe it. You’ve been flying under everybody’s magical radar for years and years. But you’re going to show up now. You need help.”

“And sitting naked with you will help me how?” she said.

“God, you are frustrating!” he cried, and took a step toward her.

She picked up the statue and threw it as hard as she could at him.

He raised a protective hand in front of his face, then stretched out his other hand, in a palm strike similar to the one she had used.

The statue froze in space. It hung, unmoving, midway between her and him.

He plucked the figurine out of the air, carried it to the altar and angrily set it back down in its original place. Then he grabbed her wrist as she bolted toward the door and pulled her into his arms.

He cradled her head against his chest and spoke rapidly in a low voice, in a strange language.

The connection she had felt between them before re-emerged; a tingling heat began at the crown of her head and draped over her, the antithesis of the wet-velvet sensation she had experienced in her bathroom at home. It was silky, liquid. She smelled oranges. Or was it roses? It was sweet and fragrant. Part of her sought refuge in the scent and the pleasure, and she could no more pull away than…die.

She remembered the white tunnel, and tears welled. It was like that. It was a return to something wonderful.

Her body trembled, pressed against the length of his. His chest was hard, his stomach taut and he was turned on.

Before she could muster a more reasonable reaction, he let go of her and took a step away. His forehead was shiny with perspiration. Whatever he had just done, it had taken him considerable effort.

“That’s the best I can do without your cooperation,” he said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “If you want to go, we’ll go now.”

She was weak-kneed. Her answering physical response alarmed her—she was extremely aroused. It made no sense, and she’d be damned before she let on that he had affected her. That any of this had touched her in the least.

“I want to go,” she said.

“All right.” He gestured for her to open the door.

As Izzy led the way out of the room, Jean-Marc said, “I’ve placed additional wards around this place, and us, and my car.”

“Redundant systems are always best,” she said evenly.

They walked to the entry of the apartment. A large plastic grocery bag contained her wet clothing. Her coat was missing.

Sauvage stood on the threshold, holding a beautiful pure-wool black coat.

“I’m really sorry about your old coat,” she said. “You can have it back if you want but it’s kind of…disgusting. You fell in some dog poop or something.”

“I want it back,” Izzy said.

“Sauvage, go get it,” Jean-Marc instructed her.

She returned with a two-handled sack, the coat folded inside it. It stank.

“I’ll take that,” Izzy said to Sauvage. “I’ll return yours later.”

“It’s yours,” Sauvage said. She looked at it wistfully, then tapped the lacings on her bustier. “It’s too small for me.”

Her toes pointed in slightly, Sauvage clasped her hands together, peeling back her fingers to wave goodbye as Izzy and Jean-Marc left the apartment.

“Please come back,” she said sweetly.

Not a chance in hell, Izzy thought, but she said nothing except, “Thanks for the dinner.”

“Oh, it was nothing.” Sauvage curtsied. “It was such an honor to microwave your food.”

“Sauvage, keep the door locked,” Jean-Marc ordered her.

She curtsied again and shut the door behind them. Then Izzy and Jean-Marc took the elevator and went down to the parking garage.

Standing outside the elevator, Jean-Marc pulled a remote out of his pocket and punched in some numbers, and the headlights of a sexy, low-slung black Jaguar parked among other wickedly sexy cars—there was a Lotus, for God’s sake—winked on. The car backed out of it parking spot and rolled toward them.

“I suppose that’s magic,” she murmured.

“Advanced technology,” he replied, showing her the sleek black remote. “Installed at the factory. Although that’s one of the topics up for debate these days. The definition of magic is ‘an alteration in the status quo, for which there is no observable natural catalyst.’ As technology advances, what is natural and what is supernatural? Are we simply a little ahead of the curve?”

She surreptitiously glanced down at her palm. What she had done was ahead of the curve.

They pulled out of the garage and onto the street. It was dark and snowing heavily. A bell trilled and Jean-Marc unhooked a car phone from a holster on the dash.

He put it to his ear, and she had the sense that he was unused to doing it—that he was going through the motions because she was there.

“Oui? Merci.” He asked a couple more questions in French. “D’accord.” He hung up.

She glanced at him. He said, “We’ve placed guards at the Metropolitan. We’re sweeping your neighborhood and inserting security. We’ll make the both of you as safe as we can.”

“How many of you are there?” she asked, shocked.

His face softened into an ironic smile. “We have operatives throughout the city.”

The car glided like a shark down Sixth. They blew past Rockefeller Center and the Hilton. Izzy wasn’t certain if Jean-Marc was actually driving, or just pretending to for her sake. But why go through the motions now?

“If I…agreed to this situation, what would you need to teach me?” she asked him. “How to do magic spells like you and Sauvage?”

“As I mentioned before, Sauvage is not Gifted,” he said. “She can’t ‘do’ magic spells. But she can assist with rituals.”

“Oh.” That made as much sense as anything else he had told her.

“You need to learn self-defense, first and foremost. Later, strategy and politics.” He warmed to the subject. “A crash course. But protective magic most of all.”

“But things are off here, you said. Magic doesn’t work right.”

“Oui. It’s because of the void that the Borgias left.” He ticked his attention from the road to her. “Do you know who the Borgias are?”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar,” she confessed. “But less familiar than Joan of Arc.”

He rolled his eyes. “American public education.”

“Hey. Show some respect,” she said, only half teasing. “I’m your queen, after all.”

He turned on the left blinker by waving his left hand over the steering wheel. “I told you, I’m not a Bouvard. I’m only acting as Regent.”

“So you’re my employee,” she said.

He looked out the window. His shoulders were hunched. It dawned on her that all this was making him incredibly uncomfortable. He yawned, and when he realized that she’d caught him doing it, he said, “I haven’t actually slept through the night in about a month. Catnapped a little.”

“Because of me.”

“It’s my job,” he said. “Tell me more about the assassin.”

It seemed easier to talk to him now. Was that because of what he’d done—cast a spell on her? Could that actually be what had happened?

“I dreamed about him,” she said. “I was afraid of him from the start.”

“We think it sensed that you were nearby when it was in front of your home. But we don’t think it had pinpointed your precise location at that point,” he told her.

She considered that. “Why not?”

He made another left. “Because you’re still alive.”

Slowly she covered her face with her hands, rubbing her fingertips against her eyelids. Her hands shook.

“Powerful magic users give off emanations,” he said. “Until recently, yours have been undetectable. We have been searching for you for a long time. It goes without saying that others have been searching, as well.”

He appraised her. “But as your power awakens, so do the emanations. I can still see them—like white sparks occasionally bursting from your aura. I think that’s why you felt compelled to hide in the Dumpster. To shield them from view. My spell will hide them from others, but probably only for a little while.”

“Then why can you still see them?” she asked him.

He said, “I’m the one who cast the spell.”

“Oh.” That gave her pause. “What about the fence? It mended itself.”

“You may have done it. Or I. I put wards everywhere as soon as I sensed your presence. I didn’t really feel you until tonight.”

The idea of his feeling her unnerved her.

“Why now? What changed? If I’m suddenly the Guardienne, that means someone else has died.”

There was a beat, in which a chasm of silence fell between them.

“There’s not been a death yet,” he said. “But we anticipate it.”

She took a breath. “Who?”

“Isabelle…” he began. Then he swerved the car across three lanes of traffic. Horns blared. Brakes squealed. Izzy held on, saying nothing.

He found an opening and pulled his Jag to the curb. He turned off the car and shifted in his seat to face her directly.

“Your mother, Isabelle.”

I zzy laughed as relief flooded through her. The snowy streets of the city were once again familiar. The man driving her home, deluded. It was all a bad dream, after all, and she could go home to the real world.

“All this trouble for nothing. Jean-Marc, my mom died ten years ago.”

She saw the recurring theme of frustration on his face. Also, something she had not seen before—was it pity?

“You were adopted,” he said bluntly.

“You are the missing daughter of Marianne de Bouvard des Flammes. Now that we know your identity, we’re researching the records. Vincenzo and Anna Maria DeMarco adopted a baby girl just before Vincenzo left the Air Force. He was stationed in Barkdale, Louisiana.”

An icy chill penetrated her relief. “No,” she insisted. “I was born there, it’s true, but my mother…was my mother and Big Vince—”

He cut her off. “I wanted to do this in stages, but this is an emergency. A crisis. Your blood family is a mess. It’s just like France in the 1400s. Rival factions have sprung up to claim the Crown. Some are working with enemy houses, making deals. Bad deals.”

She blinked rapidly. “I was not adopted.”

His dark eyes were too dark, his gaze unflinching, as he said, “When you see Vincenzo DeMarco, ask him.”

Her throat closed. She tried to swallow, but she couldn’t. He had to be wrong.

He pulled back into the traffic and they drove in silence. He started to speak, but she shook her head. She was overloaded.

He said quietly, “I’m sorry. I should’ve been more gentle. But time’s running out.”

She pursed her lips together, pressed her hands against her thighs. The snow tumbled from the sky, obscuring her vision. But she saw the occasional landmarks; they were only a few blocks from her house.

He said, “Meet one more time with me. I’ll show you some of the things you’re capable of. Then make your decision to help or to walk away. Maybe I can make some sort of announcement that you have declined the Crown and everyone will leave you alone.” He sounded completely unconvincing.

“If I’m the only hope of the Rebel Alliance, you wouldn’t let me go so easily,” she said.

He moved his shoulders in a decidedly Gallic shrug. “I don’t know what else to do. I remind you that I’m only serving as the Regent of the Bouvards. I’m a Devereaux. My family was chosen to intervene on behalf of the Flames because we’re neutral.”

“But you’re not, are you?” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “Not any longer.” His brows knit. “You have magical abilities. You’ve used them. At least let me show you how to live as a Gifted,” he urged. “Without learning how to channel your powers, you’re like a wildfire. You could hurt yourself—or people you care about.”

“How?” she demanded, thinking of her palm and what she had done to the assassin.

“I’ll give you a demonstration.” He held up his finger. “One time. Then you decide what to do next.”

She blurted, “This sucks.” She sounded like Sauvage, not a mature adult. She was retreating, unwilling to face how much had happened. What it meant for her life.

“In some ways, it does suck,” he agreed, taking her childlike anger at face value. “In other ways…we call it the Gift for a reason. I can’t imagine life without magic.”

He snapped his fingers and at once she smelled the sweet rose-orange scent again. Calmed a little. She tasted wine in her mouth. It was deep, red and rich, and it was really there.

“I pity the Ungifted,” he concluded. “We have terrible responsibilities, you and I. But we can also know transcendent pleasures.”

And they were back to sex, of that she was certain.

“You can’t know what your universe is like,” he added, his voice low and deep. He sounded almost reverent. “The things you can do, be. The Gifted live on an entirely different plane. Some magical clans call us the Blessed.” He glanced over at her. “Some Ungifted call us gods.”

“Which would be rather tasteless, from my point of view.”

“As a Catholic, you mean,” he ventured.

“As a person,” she replied. “You’re implying that the Gifted are above the law.”

“We have our own laws,” he replied. “That’s why we have the Grand Covenate. Our governing body. To enforce them. To keep the peace.”

“And how’s that working out for you people?” she asked rhetorically. In case he didn’t get her point, she underscored it. “Since I’m apparently being hunted like a dog?”

His scowl matched hers. She saw the energy coiled in his body and she thought again about how she never wanted to seriously piss him off.

“Now that you have been found, we can protect you. And I can teach you how to protect yourself.”

“Magical self-defense,” she muttered.

“Exactement.” He held up a finger. “One session.”

First one’s free, she thought ruefully. But he had her at the part about hurting people she loved. “No one else shows up,” she said. “No Sauvage, no other crazy people, just you and me.”

His startled but pleased reaction gave her pause. It was apparent that he had assumed she would refuse.

“Agreed,” he said.

I’ve done it now, she thought. I should be committed.

He drove onto her block. She glanced anxiously at the row house, scanning for the assassin guy, wondering if her neighbors would look at her showing up in a Jag with a guy, when ostensibly she was in her house, asleep.

He went on. “Waiting until tomorrow night is a concession as it is. You were attacked, Isabelle. Everything in me wants you to stay at the co-op with me. But I know you aren’t convinced yet, and I can’t force you.”

“I’m glad we’re clear on that,” she said, trying to sound more certain than she felt. “The not-forcing-me part.”

“You will be guarded, however,” he said. “I already have operatives in place.” He pointed to the shadowy place beside her door stoop, then across the street at the locked pocket park.

He parked at the curb and turned off the engine. He got out and walked behind the car, toward her door. As she swung her legs out of the Jag, she caught sight of herself in the mirror attached to the sleek beveled side of the car. She sucked in her breath. A stranger stared back at her: she was blond, and twenty, if anything. She was wearing jeans and a Mets sweatshirt beneath a heavy forest-green jacket.

“It’s a glamour,” Jean-Marc said, standing behind her. “I’ve magically altered your appearance. It won’t last long.”

He stepped into view, so that his reflection was cast in the mirror, as well. Stunned, she turned to take in his new persona. He was Asian, with short, black hair, almond-shaped eyes and broad, flared cheekbones. He had on a black jacket and black jeans.

He hustled her to the trio of stairs leading to her stoop. His gaze ticked from her to somewhere behind her. She turned; a guy with gelled red hair and a goatee stepped from the darkness.

“This is David,” Jean-Marc told her. “He’s the leader of your protection team tonight.”

“Bon soir, Guardienne,” David said respectfully. He looked about nineteen. He must be a friend of Sauvage’s. If there were chat rooms and IMs peppered with emoticons about the discovery of the Guardienne.

“We have over a dozen trained operatives watching your house,” Jean-Marc informed her. “They’re not Gifted, but each of them has sworn an oath to give his or her life for yours.”

David inclined his head. “That’s true.”

“Thank you,” she said, at a loss.

Without another word, David blended back into the shadows.

“I’ll check your house,” Jean-Marc said. “I’ll go in first. Your key?”

“If my neighbors see two strangers entering my house—”

Before she could continue, he pulled her into the shadowed place beside the stoop where David had stood.

Jean-Marc’s appearance changed again. He looked exactly like her father, from Big Vince’s sad Italian eyes to the barely noticeable jowls that had begun to form at the corners of his mouth.

“How do you do that?” she demanded. “Is it some kind of hypnosis or—”

“You know how. Not precisely how, but you know it’s not hypnosis.”

He took her hand and walked her up the steps. She extracted her key and opened the door.

He gestured for her to be quiet and murmured an incantation as he crossed the threshold. Her skin prickled as she followed him in, visually scanning the entryway for signs of intrusion. She was afraid, both of what they might discover and of the man beside her.

After she shut the door, he became himself again, tall, dark, hewn from a dream. Maybe the self he presented to her wasn’t the real Jean-Marc, either. Maybe he was grotesquely ugly. A monster.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll ward the house.”

“No way. You’re not going anywhere in this house without me.”

That seemed to surprise him, but he didn’t comment.

She trailed after him, detecting faint traces of garlic and olive oil—the odors of an Italian home—and feeling naked as he gazed at the photographs of her family on the walls of the living room. He paused a moment before the painted, wooden crucifix Aunt Clara had brought home from a pilgrimage to Lourdes, where she had prayed for Anna Maria to be healed of the lingering illness no one could name.

He spread his hands and murmured more words. Blue sparks flickered from his silhouette.

It was as if her house breathed a sigh of relief. She smelled oranges and roses again. It was like an animal leaving its scent, so that others would respect its territory.

Moving with the same easy grace she had witnessed in the octagonal room, he walked into the dining room. Lingering beside the chair Pat had sat in, he smiled half to himself as he touched it.

“I see,” he said.

She didn’t ask him what he saw. Pat was none of his business.

Then he entered the frilly kitchen and stopped at the place where she and Pat had kissed. She swallowed, feeling increasingly more violated, and muttered, “Can you hurry this up?”

“Upstairs,” he told her.

Where her bedroom was.

He led the way. At the top of the stairs, he held out his hand and said, “Wait. Let me go to work up here.” He looked over his shoulder, down at her. “There’s a greater sense of you here than downstairs.”

He squinted. “And you’ve suffered up here. Terribly.” She saw him absorbing something she could not, reacting as if someone had dealt him a severe body blow. “You cared for all of them while your mother was sick. But who cared for you?”

He moved his gaze from her to the hallway. First door on the left was her bedroom. Across the hall, the bathroom. Beyond that, Gino’s, and at the end of the hall, Big Vince’s.

He held up his hand and looked at a place she could not see. His lids flickered; he was listening to something.

He said, “You have a visitor.”

The doorbell rang, and Izzy jumped, startled.

“It’s all right to answer the door. It’s someone safe. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten past my wards.”

She hesitated. “He? He who?”

“Someone you want to see. Go ahead. I won’t interfere,” he said, opening the bathroom door. “I respect your privacy.”

She turned and headed down the stairs; halfway down, she turned back. She experimentally touched her face. “Do I look like me?”

“Oui. Et tu es magnifique,” he said in French.

Flushing, not wanting to care that he had given her a compliment, she descended, turning back to look at the stairway one more time before opening the door. Jean-Marc had made himself scarce. Whether literally, she had no idea.

Sure enough, Pat was there, wearing a black suit, his tie loosened. He smelled amazing. He looked amazing. He said, “Sorry for just dropping in, Iz. Yolanda called and said you hadn’t phoned her back after you left. I tried, too.”

“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “I…my phone’s…” She trailed off, taking a step back to let him in.

He kissed her gently but thoroughly, cupping the back of her head as she tilted upward to kiss him. This was definitely a man who knew what he was doing, and took great care to communicate that fact.

Despite her appreciation, her self-consciousness muted her response. If he noticed, he didn’t indicate it. As she gently ended the kiss, he rubbed her shoulders and said, “So, for the record, are you all right?” He scrutinized her forehead. “Looks a lot better.”

She smiled at him. “Better now.”

“I’m glad.” He touched her cheek. “Yolanda asked me to apologize again.”

“It’s okay. Too much squalling baby, is all. Care for some wine?” She led him into the dining room and walked him toward “his” chair.

“No, thanks.”

“Maybe some tea?”

He pulled out the chair and said, “I’ll get it. You sit down.”

She sank gratefully into the chair as he prepared the tea, carried the mugs to the table, and sat down, facing her. He sipped, exhaling with pleasure, and wrapped his hands around the mug as he leaned toward her. He had dimples on either side of his mouth and a cleft in his chin.

He said, “About Cratty. I think you need to know that we’re close to something. We may have found an accomplice.”

He moved his fingers from around the mug and covered her hand.

And in that moment she saw a face in her mind’s eye as clearly as if Pat was showing her a mug shot. Yolanda.

“No,” she protested, feeling ill.

“We’re wondering if that potshot someone took at your father was someone looking to get rid of Cratty. A guy like that makes a lot of enemies on the street. We’ve heard rumors that he shakes down the dealers, makes them give him some of their merchandise in return for his looking the other way.”

“You deliberately put my father in harm’s way to flush someone out?” She heard herself and was mortified, both for herself and her father. That was the kind of thing cops did. It went with the job. To protest showed either incredible naiveté on her part, or a belief that her father could no longer do his job.

He gave her hand a squeeze, as if to help her through her moment of unease, saying, “We’ve created a Department-wide detail, putting patrol officers and SNEU together, sending them out in teams. It’s a solid plan. We already got a good lead on a possible meth lab, because two guys new to partnering with each other pooled their info. Nailing Cratty—and any other dirty cops—is one of the goals, but not the only one.”

“Dirty cops and dirty civilians,” she said, meaning Yolanda. She debated telling about the images she had seen when she had touched Cratty’s evidence. Now that she knew what she knew, they made more sense. In an insane, otherworldly kind of way.

We think Julius may be in on it, too, sharing keys with Yolanda so they can get to more of Cratty’s evidence.

Her pulse quickened. His voice was as clear in her mind as Jean-Marc’s had been.

I am reading his mind. I’m not human. I’m…I’m a freak.

O vercoming her impulse to pull away from Pat as he leaned forward across the table, Izzy kept her fingers firmly pressed against his.

“This is all I can tell you,” he said.

She heard him again: I hate telling her shit about people she cares about. But she already knew something was up.

God, I want her. I want to throw her down right now and just take her and—

She blinked rapidly at him and started to let go. He cocked his head and lay his other hand on top of hers, reassuringly.

I won’t put her in the position of knowing we suspect Yolanda. Izzy likes her. I wish we weren’t talking about this. I can’t stop thinking about having sex with her. I’ve wanted her ever since I first saw her. Does she have any idea how much self-control I’ve exerted around her? I feel like an animal. I’ve got all this lust…damn…

She covered her mouth with her free hand. She was reeling. “Pat…”

She couldn’t tell him.

“Yes?” he said.

But maybe she could tell him in a different way. She took a breath, concentrating as best she could, and thought, Pat, Yolanda would never do anything illegal.

She waited to see if he reacted.

Words tumbled into her mind. I could take her right now. God, I want to. I want to do so many things with her…

And then she saw herself as he saw her: maddeningly desirable, naked, her breasts crushed against his chest as she writhed beneath him, panting with lust. Whispering, “Yes,” as he pulled himself up along her body. He wanted to take her and fill her and God, he wanted to do it to her like no other man had ever—

She let go of him and got to her feet.

“Pat,” she said in a rush. “I—I’ve overdone it. I’m feeling…tired. I have to go upstairs.”

“Iz?” He was all courtly concern as he reached for her. “Darlin’, is there anything—”

“No,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”

She faltered. He rose from his chair and steadied her. “I’m okay.”

“Hell you are.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and walked her out of the kitchen. He smelled good, like leather and a little bit of sweat. He smelled like a man. He felt like a man.

He thought like a man.

She probed his mind again. But this time she couldn’t hear his thoughts. It was as if she’d imagined the entire episode.

“What are you doing?” she asked as they reached the entryway.

He indicated the stairs. “I just want to walk you up, make sure you make it okay.”

“No.” She softened the rejection by laying her hand on his chest. “Please.” She took a breath and kissed him, tasting the cloves of the spiced tea. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, but…I’m good.”

He kissed her back, warmly, his lips a whisper against hers. “You’re sure,” he said.

She eased him to the front door and threw back the bolt.

He paused. “I need to ask you to hold this in confidence. Even from Yolanda.”

“Of course.” Especially since you think she’s a co-conspirator.

“Call you tomorrow,” he told her.

“That’d be nice.”

She shut the door, throwing the dead bolt. Then she turned around and leaned against it, closing her eyes. Her heart was pounding.

I read his mind.

She heard noises on the second floor, reminding her—as if she needed any reminding—that Jean-Marc was upstairs. And that this night was too strange by half.

She moved into the hall, stalling, replaying everything she had seen and heard in Pat’s mind.

She knew people lied to each other; she knew they lied to themselves. But to hear him lying to her. To see how he saw her sexually. She wasn’t naive. She knew men were wired differently. But to be shown it, to see it firsthand. It was such a violation of his privacy. She was horribly ashamed.

I didn’t try to do it. It just happened.

She looked up as she heard a door above her head open then shut. He was busy up there, whatever he was doing.

A board squeaked in the hallway. She waited for him to appear at the landing.

He did. His thumbs in his belt loops, he tilted his head. He was so different in appearance from Pat—darkness where Pat was sunny and blond. She could feel his coiled nervous energy, contrasted with Pat, who was laid back and easygoing—except in the sexual arena, and she knew that even there, Pat would go as slowly as she wanted him to.

He said, “Come up here. I want to show you a few things.”

Yeah, I’ll bet.

“No funny stuff,” she warned. “No naked blindfolds.”

“No naked blindfolds,” he agreed.

She took the stairs slowly—she really was feeling a little dizzy—and he turned as she reached the landing. First he pushed open the bathroom door and walked in. She followed, glancing at herself in the mirror. She was still Izzy DeMarco, with her hair a little more mussed than usual and her cheeks rosy.

“I did some more warding while you were with that man.” The fact that he didn’t say Pat’s name irked her. “This area reeked of violation. Someone was searching for you here. My ward should keep them at bay.”

“If it holds,” she pointed out. “Because we’re in New York, where magic is unpredictable.”

“Oui,” he admitted. “Which is why time is of the essence.”

He walked her back into the hall. “Your brother’s room is very holy,” he said. His choice of words surprised her. He shrugged. “People of faith are holy.”

“Please don’t tell him that.”

“Your father’s room…he has known terrible despair. Also, he’s in a lot of physical pain that he’s trying to hide from you. You should make him go to the doctor.”

She sighed. “It would be easier to get him to become a United Methodist.” At his blank look, she said, “Family in-joke.”

“I see.” Clearly he did not. “Now we come to your room.” He puffed air out of his cheeks and slumped his shoulders as he splayed his fingers over the closed door. “I was defeated here. This place is tainted beyond redemption. You mustn’t sleep here anymore.”

Looking from his face to the door and back again, she said, “Tainted how?”

“Evil energy has crept into it from your dreams. Its aura is poisonous to you.”

“My bedroom has an aura?” she asked dubiously.

“You know it does.” He was impatient. “You’ve felt the change in the air when I’ve altered the aura of a space that we’re both in. Your room is toxic. I could work on it, but it would take a lot of time and effort that can be better spent elsewhere.”

She looked warily at her door.

“From now on, you should sleep in Gino’s room. Give your father an excuse and do it. Tell him you feel closer to your mother there. That you sense her presence. Since your brother’s training to be a priest, your father will buy it.”

“I’m not selling my own father a bill of goods.” She reached around him for the doorknob to her room.

“No!” he shouted. He raised his palm at her; a blue glow emanated from it and pushed her gently away.

“This is my house,” she said angrily.

“You are my responsibility,” he shot back.

She raised her palm. Concentrated. A ball of blindingly white flame sprang from her hand and crashed into the wall inches from his head. The impact shattered the plaster; chunks rained down onto the hallway floor like a miniature snowstorm.

The wall smoked; then the perimeter of the indentation the ball had created burst into flame.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped.

Jean-Marc held out both hands and uttered words in another language. The fire went out. The plaster rose from the floor like a movie shown in reverse, repairing the hole until it looked as if nothing had happened.

“The only other time you used your power, you destroyed the assassin,” he reminded her. “Have you forgotten how powerful you are?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to know,” she said honestly, staring at the wall. It was completely restored in every detail.

“This is why we need some training time,” he said. “After a couple of sessions—”

“I agreed to one,” she cut in, although she felt foolish arguing the point. She had just set her own house on fire.

He exhaled again, weary and irritated. “I’ll transfer a few things to Gino’s room for you. Go ahead and lie down. I’ll be quick.”

“But—”

“Allez, vite,” he said tersely.

Combative, touchy, she did as he asked, sweeping into Gino’s room and turning on the lamp at his varnished oak study desk. Football pennants and sports trophies—that was Gino.

She crossed to one of the twin beds, which were separated by a nightstand, and pulled back the navy-blue corduroy bedspread of the one furthest from the door.

Beneath the bedspread, her gauzy white nightgown lay folded on top of the blanket.

How did he do that?

As she unfolded her gown, a parade of her clothes—pants, jackets, bras, panties—glided through the air. Jean-Marc brought up the rear with her jewelry box and the votive statue of the Virgin Mary in his arms.

She took a breath, feigning nonchalance, wondering why she bothered. He knew this was unbelievably strange to her.

He murmured something and the clothes draped themselves over the twin bed closest to the door. He said, “Your father’s being discharged from the hospital.”

“Oh.” Relief and uncertainty flooded through her. “How do you know that?”

He didn’t answer her question. “David and the others are out there. And I’ll wait nearby until your father is safely in the house.”

“Your Jag—”

“He won’t see it.” He cupped her cheek, and she let him. Warmth flowed into her face. It felt good. “You’re a brave woman. I know all this is overwhelming.”

She nodded.

“I’ll send a car for you tomorrow night. After dark. Tell your father you’re going to the movies.”

What about Pat? she thought; but she didn’t owe Pat any explanations regarding her whereabouts.

“All right. Not too flashy,” she said, referring to the car. “This is a working-class neighborhood.”

He set her jewelry box down on the nightstand. The statue of the Virgin Mary he held with both hands, gazing at the face. He murmured as if he were speaking to it, and then he carried it to Gino’s desk.

“I liked it better when I thought you were crazy,” she said.

“Part of you still does think I’m crazy,” he assured her. “But that will probably change tomorrow.” He crossed his arms. “There’s so much you will have to let go of.”

She didn’t like the sound of that.

“Bonne nuit,” he said. “I wish you dreamless sleep.”

He walked out of the room and closed the door. She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps, and then she wearily changed into her nightgown and puffed her pillow behind her back, determined to stay awake until her father got home.

 

In the nightmare forest…

She stood on the wrought-iron balcony of a three-story Southern mansion. The wounded moon bled shadows on advancing figures—capering, leathery monsters; furry creatures with glowing eyes and slashing fangs.

An army of white-faced, skeletal men shambled forward. When one collapsed, another stumbled over it, crushing a decomposing face with a bare foot of blue-tinged skin and exposed bone.

She had to stop them or he would die.

Her mother shouted, “Just let me go, Vince! I can’t stand it anymore! I can’t even remember anymore what it feels like not to be in pain!”

A gun went off.

 

He is going to take the gun. He is going to end you. And then he will end the House of the Flames.

B ig Vince came home from the hospital as it was turning light.

He told Izzy that while he was going back to work later in the day, she was taking some time off work. “A week. Maybe more. No arguments. You’ve got too much vacation time on the books anyway.”

He also approved of Izzy’s sleeping in Gino’s room.

“It’s always cold in your room,” he said. “Except in summer.”

 

Her father’s shift would start at four that afternoon. He stayed in the house with her, except for a short trip across the street to Russo’s Deli, bringing home a picnic of cold cuts, cheese and a loaf of fragrant, fresh bread. “I found this on the stoop,” he said, showing her a large black leather glove. “Maybe it belongs to the United Methodist?”

He set the black glove down on the cherrywood table near the front door.

“Speaking of Pat,” she said, and then she brought up what he had told her about Cratty as Big Vince joined her in the kitchen, father and daughter working side by side as they had for years. About the department looking into him.

“Kittrell shouldn’t have told you anything,” he said, carrying their plates to the table. “He should have kept my girl out of it.”

“Big Vince, you’re a throwback.” She brought two glasses of watered-down wine and set them at each place at the dining room table.

“I’m your father.” He sat down—a little slowly, she fretted. He picked up his wine. “You know me. I want you to find a nice man, preferably Catholic, who’s got a good job, have my grandkids, and cook a lot.” He winked at her. “It’s not so bad, eh?”

“No, Don Corleone.”

“Besides, it’s a violation of secrecy. For that reason alone, he shouldn’t have told you.”

He had a point, which irked her. She didn’t want to think ill of Pat for any reason. She liked him, even if he was a sexed-up male in heat.

And what am I, then? She chuckled at herself. She was no fainting virgin. She wanted him, too.

Finally, Big Vince went to work. At a quarter to seven, she dressed in black sweats and her new coat, watching through the living room window for Jean-Marc’s car to pull up to the curb. At seven exactly, a cab arrived. A familiar Asian man sat in the back. He leaned forward and gazed in her direction.

Her front door opened of its own accord. She crossed the threshold; it shut. She got in the cab; the Asian man slid over. He was wearing black sweats, too, and a thick black leather jacket. He looked like a ninja.

He said to her, “David is driving tonight.”

Sure enough, he of the gelled red hair was seated behind the wheel.

“Hello, Ms. DeMarco,” he said.

She liked that. She said in return, “Hey, David, thanks for watching over me.” Then she looked at Jean-Marc. “Just us,” she reminded him.

“Just us. David will drop us off.”

The cab pulled away from the curb. Jean-Marc became Jean-Marc again, and his wildman hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

“Good evening,” she said to him, feigning nonchalance.

“We’re going to the Cloisters,” Jean-Marc informed her. The Cloisters was a museum created out of whole sections of Medieval French monasteries and other buildings.

“What?” She had assumed they would go back to his place. “Why?”

“Have you been there?” he asked her.

“A million years ago,” she confessed. “I’m a native. We don’t go to the tourist spots so much.”

“The Cloisters houses a collection of Medieval art from the twelfth through the fifteenth centuries,” he said. “Much of it was taken from our lands. The pieces themselves are imbued with the magical essences of the Bouvards, Devereauxes and even Malchances. As well as other noble houses who failed in their attempts to become magic users. You’ll sense it. Eventually you’ll be able to work with it.”

She stared at him. “No way.”

“Wait and see.”

They drove across the Brooklyn Bridge, then up through Tribeca, the Village and up to the Upper West Side. They took the next exit after the George Washington Bridge.

Snow sprinkled gently on a low-slung tiled roof overhanging arched walkways made of stone. A large, full moon glowed like a clock against a square tower. Izzy could easily picture a line of hooded monks walking to Mass, chanting in ancient Latin with their heads bowed.

David got out and opened the trunk, unloading a white leather equipment bag, which Jean-Marc slung over his shoulder. Something inside it clanked. As he walked beside Izzy, he said, “I haven’t informed your family that I’ve found you. Until we can figure out who is loyal and who isn’t, there’s no reason to break your cover.”

“And how will we figure that out?” she asked. She felt as if she had already had this discussion—with Pat, about the situation at the precinct.

He debated a moment and then he said, “We may not have to, if you decide to walk away.”

She was impressed. “I’m glad you’ve accepted that as a real possibility.”

“As I said before, I’m only doing a job,” he replied, shrugging.

 

He moved his hand as they approached. Blue shimmered against the falling snowflakes, lighting up his profile. “I just disengaged the security system,” he said. He snapped his fingers. “And the security guard.” At her look, he said, “The guard is unharmed. He’ll sleep. He won’t see or hear us. Nor will we appear on the security cameras.”

“Whoa. You’d make a great spy.” She tried to sound light, but her voice cracked.

“I am a great spy,” he replied seriously.

Then they were inside, moving past tapestries depicting a unicorn hunt, and for all their beauty, they were savage and cruel. From the images, she gathered that a lovely young girl was being used as bait, and that once the unicorn grew to trust her, it was slaughtered, just like any beautiful, exotic animal that was hunted for no good reason except the thrill.

There were paintings of saints, their heads surrounded by golden halos. Haloed angels hovered in the backgrounds of many paintings, shimmering and almost pagan in their beauty.

“This place holds magical memories,” he said in a hushed voice. “I can sense our ancestors. Soon you will be able to, as well.”

He selected one of the enclosed quadrangles of the reassembled monasteries to take out five rainbow-colored, flat-sided oval crystals and a large, shiny, fixed-blade knife etched with a pentagram and covered with swirled writing she couldn’t read. There were three moonstones in the hilt of the knife that caught the light and threw it against the walls.

Positioning the crystals on the floor, he made a semicircle above them with the knife.

“This is an athame,” he said, pressing the length of his hand over the knife. “It’s for magic rituals. I made it for you. When you’ve learned more about the Craft, you’ll make your own.”

She blinked as she studied the knife. “You made it for me?”

“Oui.” When she started to ask him more, he picked up one of the crystals, a flat-sided oval, and said, “These are scrying stones. We can see other places with them. They’re like security cameras.” He waved his hand over the crystal. A soft blue glow surrounded it.

He handed it to her. It was warm in her palm. He waved his hand over it and murmured words in Latin.

The flat surface of the oval revealed a shot of Gino’s bedroom about an inch square. It was focused on the bed she was using, which she had made up upon rising.

She frowned at him and said, “Have you been spying on me?”

“Yes,” he replied.

She was mortified. “You had no right.”

Saying nothing, he reached back into the bag and drew out a wicked black revolver with an ivory grip.

She stiffened. She set down the crystal and sat back on her haunches.

He said, “You’re afraid of it.” He laid the gun down carefully, watching her.

“I have a thing about guns.” She rubbed her arms. “A phobia.”

“That’s interesting.” He picked up the weapon, hefting it in his hand. “I wonder why.”

He slipped it back into the equipment bag.

They wandered down a covered archway, Izzy gazing at the moon on the snow. Beyond the lacy stonework of the exterior wall, a square of snow covered what would be an elaborate herb garden come spring.

“Herbs are important,” he counseled her, leading the way back into the rooms of the museum. “I collected a few books for you.” He unlocked a storage closet and shifted buckets and brooms out of his way.

“Look.”

There was a beautifully carved chest at the back of the closet. It was about a yard on a side, and maybe two feet deep. But when he opened it and she looked inside, there were dozens of books arranged in stacks.

She frowned, sitting back on her heels as she looked from the interior to the exterior. It made no sense. A box that size couldn’t hold that many books.

She swallowed. How could she accept this? If she did, it meant that her father was not her father. Her brother, not of her blood. But with everything she had seen, how could she not believe?

Her stomach twisted; mind-numbing panic seized her and pulled her down as if she were sinking in a vast sea, with no hope of rescue. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear, or breathe, or think.

Then thoughts tumbled in, one after another, crashing over her with a heavy weight. I don’t carry the legacy of a saint. I’m not adopted. I’m none of this. It’s a horrible mistake.

“Please,” he said. “Pay attention.”

 

Within half an hour, Izzy had examined carton-loads of books and CD-ROMS about herbs, candles, Wicca and Tarot. Jean-Marc had also printed out long lists of Web sites and even blogs written by bona fide magic users. She was utterly overwhelmed.

“You must learn everything about your family, and your Gift,” he informed her. “Children in our families begin learning before they stop nursing. But you…” He let out all the air in his lungs; it rose like steam in the cold night air. “Mon Dieu, this is really so unbelievable,” he muttered. “C’est impossible.”

She wanted to say something snide, like thank him for his lack of faith in her, but in truth, he was scaring her.

He began to walk. “Come here,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him. Then he added, “Please.”

He led her down a dark corridor. There were no artificial lights, just a faint glow of moonlight that cast silver and gold in his hair. Then even the moonlight faded as they walked deeper into the museum, so like an ancient fortress that she began to imagine other people walking past them—women in headdresses and long gowns, men in tights and sleeves that dragged on the floor. She smelled lavender, the scent of freshly turned earth….

Jean-Marc waved his hand to the right. She turned and saw a narrow, semicircular alcove cut into the stone wall. A trio of arched, leaded-glass windows revealed the snowy, black night outside.

Inside the circle stood a life-size stone statue of a figure in armor, its helmet clutched under its arm, a halo around its head. Its other hand held the staff of a banner, also made of stone. A bouquet of half a dozen lilies rested in a blue vase and a fat, alabaster-colored candle sat at its feet.

Izzy drew near, aware that Jean-Marc did not. But something about the statue called her, urged her forward.

It was a woman. The halo was a piece of separate stone secured to her head, as if it had been added later. Her short hair framed a delicate oval face and her features were soft. Her eyes held sorrow, and purpose; her mouth was firmly shut.

Joan of Arc, Izzy realized.

Without full awareness of what she was doing, she approached the statue with her hand outstretched.

Whispers surrounded her; she felt wispy fingers moving over her shoulders, down her back. She swayed. There was a lute, far off…and the crackling of flames.

She smelled smoke.

She heard distant weeping.

Then she fell to her knees.

“Jehanne, je suis là,” she murmured. Tears rolled down her face as she raised her hands toward the statue. “Je m’appelle Isabella, et je suis la jeune fille…”

She heard herself, and froze. She cleared her throat and rasped, “Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

“I’m doing nothing,” Jean-Marc answered in a whisper. “You know that.”

“I don’t,” she insisted. “I do not.”

She got to her feet and backed away from the statue.

She whirled on him. He was leaning against the stone wall with his arms and legs crossed. Blue shimmered in a silhouette all around him, like a computer-graphic effect in a movie. It frightened her.

She said, “I want to leave.”

He didn’t respond. As she brushed past him, he grabbed her wrist, forcing her to a standstill.

“Lives depend on you,” he reminded her. He jerked his head back at the statue. “As they did on her. You know that. You felt it. You felt the weight of it, and it made you cry.”

She glared at him and yanked on her hand. “Let go.”

He did; she walked outside into the snow and waved her arm, assuming David was somewhere, waiting for them to signal that they were finished.

Jean-Marc stomped up behind her; she heard his footfalls in the snow. She ignored him, wrapping her arms around herself as cold hands of fear squeezed her chest.

Sure enough, the taxi appeared. David popped her door open, then started to get out to assist her. Hastily she let herself in, climbing into the back seat.

Jean-Marc caught up with her.

“You’re not coming with me,” she said, reaching to shut the door. “I’m going home alone.”

With an iron grip on the door, he kept it open. “I need to check on the wards.”

“No. No more,” she said. Her voice shook. Her hands were trembling. “We’re done.”

He scowled at her, said, “What if they come after you when your father is home? Or if that man comes to see you, and they go for him?”

That man.

“You know his name,” she said.

“What if something happened to him?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

“What purpose would that serve?” he asked evenly.

“You know what purpose.” She moved around him to wrap her fingers around the armrest, in preparation for shutting the door. “You say you aren’t invested in this outcome, but you know you are.”

He didn’t argue. The silence stretched into some kind of conclusion between them, and he moved out of the way of the door. She slammed it shut and said to David, “Take me home, please.”

Before he responded, he glanced through the window at Jean-Marc, who inclined his head, giving permission.

As the cab pulled away, Izzy looked back through the rear window. Jean-Marc stood in front of the Cloisters with his arms crossed, the lord of the ghostly manor. That was his world—crumbling ruins and phantoms, bizarre magical feuds and—

—and recurring nightmares. And things that try to kill me. And if I walk away now, those things go with me.

Jean-Marc was an iffy ally at best, but he was the only one she had in this strange new world. And he had a point: what if something did happen to her father or Pat?

Shoulders slumping in defeat, she said, “David, stop. Go back.”

He hung a U and drove her to the entrance. She opened the door and climbed out, boots crunching in the snow. Jean-Marc had not moved since she had taken off.

They stood facing one another, she with her hands in her pockets and her head tilted up so she could look him in the eye. His arms were at his sides, faint flares of blue emanating from the crown of his head, like a halo. She thought of the halos she had seen around the heads of saints in the pictures on the walls of the Cloisters—and the head of Joan of Arc, for that matter. Were they really depictions of Gifted?

“I want more proof,” she said, trembling, “that this isn’t a case of mistaken identity on everybody’s part. That I am the person you’re looking for.”

He nodded. “D’accord. I’ll give it to you.”

Then he ran his gaze over her face, to the crown of her head, and down. She felt the connection. Felt it.

“You were right to stop for the night,” he observed. “You’re depleted. I can’t teach you anything more this evening. I’ll take you home and we’ll talk there awhile. I’ll check the wards.”

“I just said I’d stay,” she protested.

“You’re worn out. I can see it. Wait here while I collect the equipment.” He gestured for her to get back in the cab. “David, help me,” he said, heading back toward the Cloisters.

David followed, and Izzy trailed behind, quickly catching up. Jean-Marc positioned himself on her left side and David moved to her right. Were they protecting her or making sure she didn’t take off again?

They reentered the museum. Izzy moved more deeply into the gloom, twisting through the labyrinthine corridors until she found herself leading them back into the alcove where the statue of Joan of Arc stood guard.

As one, the three stopped walking.

At the feet of the statue, beside the bouquet of lilies, a shaft of moonlight gleamed on the crystals, the knife and the revolver. They had been arranged inside a pentagram, which had been drawn on the stone floor in what appeared to be luminous white chalk.

The statue stared placidly, blankly, as before. But the moonlight traveled as if on scudding clouds and her halo was bathed in white light.

Jean-Marc looked questioningly at Izzy, who shook her head. In turn she looked at David, who clearly didn’t grasp the significance of what he was seeing. He had not been present when Jean-Marc had showed her the objects, nor put the revolver back in his equipment bag.

Jean-Marc held out a hand for her to stay back, but she walked past him and squatted down. Folding her arms over her chest, she surveyed the layout.

She sucked in her breath.

An image had been etched into the previously blank bone-colored grip of the revolver. It was a recreation of the statue in the alcove, helmet under one arm, fist around a banner, full armor, short hair…and Izzy’s face.

My face. Mine.

A sharp, visceral chill clasped her heart. It beat out of time; she heard the missed beats in her ears, in her temples.

With forced calm, she turned her attention to the knife. Rows upon rows of flames had been etched across the blade; at the hilt, a ghostly hand held an intricate rose in its palm. A scrawled “I”—for Isabella? Or was it a stake?—rose from the flames.

Jean-Marc joined her, sitting back on his haunches beside her. She whispered, “Unless you did this, someone else is in the Cloisters.”

He studied the weapons. His hair brushed her arm. His exotic scent enveloped her. Then he said, “I think you did this.”

A s Jean-Marc studied the weapons inside the pentagram, Izzy vigorously shook her head.

“No way,” she insisted. “I didn’t touch any of these…things.”

He extended his hand over the pentagram and closed his eyes. “Oui. Your essence is on them.”

“Whoa,” David whispered.

“You see why I have to train you,” Jean-Marc said. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “I didn’t do it, Isabelle. It’s not a trick.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Pas peur. Je suis là.”

“Don’t be afraid?” she asked incredulously.

Then her head exploded and pain pounded behind her eyes. She cried out loud and pressed both hands against her forehead.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” she whispered, staggering to her feet. She raced to the wall of the covered walkway. She leaned over and retched.

He waited at a discreet distance. Footsteps faded, returned. Then he brought her a paper cup of cool water. She drank it down, crumpling the cup in her fist.

He splayed his left hand across her temples, staring into her eyes. The moonlight reflected in his dark eyes seemed to swirl and dance; as she locked gazes with him, the pain lessened.

Without looking away from her, he snapped his fingers in the direction of the pentagram. At once, all the objects rose into the air.

Still gazing at her, Jean-Marc pointed to the equipment bag slung over his shoulder, holding it open. The knife gleamed as it dropped inside. The crystals plopped in next.

The gun hovered in the air. His glance ticking toward it, Jean-Marc clicked his fingers and pointed to the bag as if remonstrating a willful pet.

It remained where it was.

And as Isabelle looked at it, a strange, steadying sensation gathered inside her. She remembered this feeling: when her mother had been first diagnosed, her father had sat down next to her bed and said, “Ma is very sick, Izzy. I need you to be strong and help me with Gino. Can you do that?”

She had only been seven years old. She had wrapped her arms around Mr. Foo Foo Bunny, her bedtime buddy, and nodded. But she was so scared that she had wanted to cry and crawl into her father’s arms.

Then the fake nod for her father shifted to something else—a kind of peace, acceptance. Even so little, she had known she could handle what was to come.

She had that feeling now.

Isabelle held out her hand and the gun glided over to her, descended and settled in her grip. It was warm. Its heft felt right in her hand. Felt as if it belonged to her, and it was a welcome sensation, like clasping the hand of a long-lost friend.

She said, “Where did you get this?” But she knew what he was going to say before he answered.

“It is your mother’s.”

And she thought maybe she finally understood why, all these years, she had been unwilling to own a gun: Jean-Marc had spoken the truth. She did have power that she didn’t know how to use.

Big Vince’s partner, Jorge Olivera, had his service revolver wrested away from him, and then he had been shot with it. Yolanda had nearly gotten fired when a gun had discharged. The officer in the locker room could have killed himself when his weapon fell out of his gun belt.

But a gun in her hand was another matter entirely.

Yes. She felt young, and strong, and filled with power. Brimming with it. Every muscle in her body, her bones…she was invincible.

She closed her hand around the handle of the knife and pulled it out of the bag. Knife in one hand, gun in the other.

Energy coursed through her. There was more, and more…it was sensuous, sexual. It made her sway. She heard thunder masquerading as her heartbeat; heard crackling currents pulsating through her body like a network of electrified veins and arteries.

Power.

She didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know how to handle it.

“Now we know that one of your Gifts is psychometry,” he said. “You get impressions from holding objects. You see things, or feel them. Oui?”

“Yes.” Now things clicked. “There’s a dirty cop at the precinct. When I touched evidence that he had bagged, I saw him stealing drugs from street dealers, beating someone.” She cocked her head, remembering. “Then I tried again and nothing.”

“You’re adjusting to your abilities,” he surmised. “Plus, you’re dealing with the unevenness of the magical field in New York.”

“This is really happening,” she murmured. Tears welled and slid down her cheeks. “I’m…I’m not at all who I thought I was.”

Agonized, she turned away.

“Isabelle…” he said softly. She could feel the heat from his hand hovering above her shoulder.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please.”

He complied.

She took a deep breath. “Tomorrow night, I want to go to a gun range. Not the Department’s. I want you to help me learn how to shoot it.”

“I will.” He gestured to the equipment bag. “Your revolver is called a Medusa. K-frame revolver, holds six shots. The cylinder has a unique spring system in the chambers so the thing can hold and shoot different calibers. You can fire a .380 auto round, a .38 Colt, .38 Special, 9 mm and a .357 Magnum.”

Wiping her eyes, she stared down at it. “That is magic.”

“The lines are blurring every day.” He hesitated a moment, then went on. “We’ll have to discuss how to transition you to the safe house. The place you woke up in. When I was, ah, reviving you. It will be a red flag if you simply disappear.”

“I can’t just disappear,” she countered, her heart fluttering in her rib cage. “I have friends. Family. My family.”

He said nothing, but she knew there was going to be a conversation on the subject, and soon.

She couldn’t bear it.

She would have to bear it.

 

As before, Jean-Marc accompanied her home. Carrying the equipment back into her house, he went through each of the rooms. He was not satisfied with the condition of his wards, so he performed several rituals to reset and strengthen them.

“You may have some trouble with your phones again,” he told her. “Speaking of which…”

He handed her a card. It was embossed with the same turret-clouds-dove scene she had seen on the tapestry in the altar room. The initials “J.M.” stood alone on a line. The one beneath it gave a New York phone number.

“Day or night,” he said.

“And if the phones don’t work?”

“We’ll work on our psychic connection,” he replied.

She put the card in her purse, on the table in front of the front door, and looked back at him.

As he gazed at her, the same low-level current she had experienced before buzzed through her. It caressed her lower abdomen, massaged the back of her spine. Like her rush holding the weapons, there was something innately sexual about it. She was stirred, excited.

By him.

 

His sharp features were focused on her. His energy and power rippled in waves, merging with hers, and she found herself barely able to keep herself from raising on her tiptoes and offering her mouth to him.

The silence grew between them…speaking volumes. She felt vaguely disloyal to Pat, which didn’t make sense. But there it was.

If Jean-Marc touches me…she thought. If his fingers touch me…

She broke contact. Somehow, in her mind, she shut off the connection, punctuating her effort with a step away from him.

She expected a mocking smile to cross his face, but he remained as he was, probing, seeking. She felt his energy attempting to reestablish their link.

She refused him entry.

And still the wry smile did not come.

He said in a gravelly whisper, “I fear leaving you here. I have rituals to conduct at the safe house…”

She had been wondering what he did when he wasn’t with her. She said, “Can you do them here?” Then she heard what she was saying and wished she could take it back.

He shook his head. “Maybe in your brother’s room, in time. The altar room in the safe house is sanctified. It’s the only place in New York where I can work the spell.”

“What spell?” she asked.

“To guard Alain. He’s my cousin, the Devereaux I left in charge.”

“His life is in danger?” she asked, shocked.

He inclined his head. “Everyone’s life is in danger.”

“That really makes me want to go there,” she blurted. Her cheeks felt hot as she added, “I know it’s not about what I want. I know, Jean-Marc. Please don’t start.”

He cupped her cheek. The contact blazed through her like a wildfire; her body seized, hard. Unbelievable pleasure shot through her.

He took his hand away. She would have protested, but her throat closed and she could do nothing but stand rooted to the spot.

“Isabelle,” he murmured.

She cleared her throat and gave her head a quick shake. “Izzy. DeMarco.”

“Don’t leave the house,” he said. “Magic is always stronger at night. Make a list of people we should be guarding. All your friends and loved ones. We’ll ward the precinct as best we can. Yolanda’s, your brother, places you frequent.”

“Good,” she said.

“And of course, your lover’s home.”

She bristled. “He’s not my lover.”

Then came the mocking smile, the amused glint. And she realized, with a start, that Jean-Marc employed it as a defense mechanism. He cared that she had a lover.

“And I have no idea where he lives,” she added.

“You should find out,” he informed her. He shrugged like a Frenchman. “Or we can.”

As he turned to go, she reached up and tapped his shoulder. When he looked back at her, she held out her arms for the equipment bag.

“That’s mine, I believe,” she said.

He hesitated. “These objects are very powerful, both concretely and magically. You still don’t know how to control your power.”

Nevertheless, he settled the bag into her arms.

“Be careful,” he said.

Why start now? she thought in reply.

He smiled warmly. “Better late than never.”

 

After he left, she checked the voice mail, to discover that her father and Pat both had called twice.

She was settling into bed in Gino’s room when the phone rang.

She felt a perverse triumph that it was working—which turned to concern as she considered if that meant that Jean-Marc’s wards were no longer functional.

I hope those operatives are staying alert.

“Were you asleep?” Pat asked by way of greeting.

“No,” she said softly.

“And why not?”

She smiled.

“I’m doing a four to twelve,” he said.

“So is my father.” She took a breath. “Is he partnering with John tonight?”

“No. I think we’re winding that up,” he replied.

She went on alert. “Oh? Is he going down?”

“Yes. We have an informant.” A beat. “Yolanda. We had her wear a wire today.” Another beat. “Iz, she was in it with him. They were skimming drugs out of her evidence lockers to sell.”

Izzy felt sick. She thought about the fancy TV in Tria’s apartment and how uncomfortable Yolanda had been discussing it.

She picked at the bedspread, gazing at her short nails. Thinking of all the perfume and color that swirled around the younger woman.

“Is she in protective custody?” That was customary, if she was going to provide testimony in return for immunity from prosecution. But that wouldn’t save her job, of course.

“Yes. Safe house with a baby-sitter. Want the number?”

“Yes, thanks.”

She got a pen and paper, and wrote it down. What a stupid, stupid thing to do. Yolanda had made it, gotten out of a tough beginning, away from a bad boyfriend…she was on her way to a great career. Now all that was gone.

“Do you know that the average street seller makes less than minimum wage?” she asked rhetorically. Because of course he did.

“This is how they played it,” Pat said. “He’d bring in drugs but write the weight on his Evidence Order as lighter than it actually was. Yolanda would put some extra Property bags and sometimes even pennies on the scale before she zeroed it out. They had a precise calibration system. That would account for the phony weight on the E.O.”

“Got it,” she said. “The scale was jimmied, so the false reading would match the weight on the form.”

“Yes. Then she would finish the intake and put the bag in one of her lockers. Later on, she’d go in and break into the bag and skim off the excess. When the drugs got checked out or taken to Central Holding, the listed weight checked out, because they were weighed on a scale that had been improperly zeroed out.”

Izzy took up the thread. “So she used a new security tag when she opened the bag to skim off the excess.”

“Yes. When we questioned her, she showed us the roll.”

That made perfect sense. Like every Property room in North America, Prop kept out a roll of red butterfly security tags from every shipment of tags that they received. The theory was that they were used when Prop screwed up and needed to reseal a bag—when someone retrieved the wrong evidence for a case, for example. They did that rather than re-input the entire case, which would be a nightmare.

Despite the fact that the tags were sequential, as long as the tag used contained an earlier number in the sequence than a higher one, no one paid much attention. Izzy had been surprised to learn about the kluge—it clearly broke the chain of custody—but she was taught to do it when she first came on the job, as if it were part of established procedure. Still, she had never done it, nor seen it done. “Does he know that she’s given him up?” Izzy asked.

“We don’t think so. We’re looking for him. He’s not home and he’s not on duty.” He added, “Your father’s completely out of it.”

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

“We need to ask you to come in so we can open your lockers and check Cratty’s bags. Everyone else in Prop will do the same. Tonight’s a lockdown.” Meaning no new evidence would be checked in. Deliveries would be taken to a different precinct Prop room.

“Of course. First thing tomorrow morning?”

“That’d be best. Sorry to ask. I know you’re taking some time off.”

“Sure, of course,” she said.

“Moving on to nicer topics…you want to go to the movies again? I’ve got tomorrow night clear. I’ll even sit through a chick flick if that makes you say yes.”

The gun range. I said I’d go with Jean-Marc.

“I’m feeling kind of punk,” she said, wincing at how lame that sounded.

He took it well. “That’s fine.” His voice softened. “This isn’t a race, Iz.”

“Thank you,” she said feelingly, but it felt like a race. Her entire life was on fast-forward.

“Nothing to thank me for, darlin’.”

She hung up and placed the call to Yolanda. A female officer answered and Izzy identified herself. The phone got handed to Yolanda.

“I’m sorry,” Yolanda sniffled.

A million recriminations flashed through Izzy’s brain. But all she said was, “You got out in time. You didn’t end up dead. Because that’s how these things usually go.”

“I know,” Yolanda replied, hiccupping on a sob. “Can you come to see me?” Her voice was little-girl small.

“They’ll keep you sequestered for your own safety,” Izzy said. “But I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

Yolanda dissolved into heavy weeping. The officer got back on the line and told Izzy they had to disconnect. Izzy complied, and the dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Feeling melancholy, she picked up the equipment bag and set it down on Gino’s desk next to the Virgin Mary. She wondered if Yolanda had called Tria to let her know what was going on. She didn’t have Tria’s number; she’d used her cell while she was there and hadn’t thought to ask for it. Next time she called Yolanda, she’d mention it to her. She sighed, feeling a little too involved, but not sure how to extricate herself—or if she actually wanted to. A fleeting sensation skittered across her consciousness, as if someone were tickling her nerve endings. She looked around the room. Then she wrapped her hand around the gun and pulled it out, studying the beautiful picture of Joan of Arc—wearing her face—on the ivory handle.

She said out loud, “This house is warded. I am protected from my enemies.”

The feeling dissipated.

She should probably call Jean-Marc. His card was in her purse, which she’d left downstairs on the entry table, so she went downstairs to retrieve it.

The glove her father had found was lying beside her purse. She should have asked Pat if he was missing one. Idly she picked it up and—

Izzy gasped. John Cratty’s face filled her mind. It was his glove.

And John Cratty’s glove had a story for her.

I’m getting my share or that bitch is going down…

She saw a face, contorted in terror, a bloodshot eye, a split lip—it was Tria!

She heard a baby crying as Tria begged, “Please, don’t hurt Calvin. Oh, my God, please….”

Izzy grabbed her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

It took her a moment to realize that the phone wasn’t working.

Neither was the landline in the kitchen.

Did I just do that when I tried to ward the house?

“I decree that the phones work!” she shouted. “My cell phone and the landline! In Nomini Patri, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti!” She crossed herself.

She tried the phones again.

Nothing.

Izzy was out the front door like a shot.

I t was snowing, and Izzy was in a nightgown and bare feet, carrying her purse. She flew down the steps, crying, “David! People! I need help!”

No one answered. No one came out of the shadows.

She rapped on the Russos’ front door. The aging, balding Italian didn’t understand her torrent of words but he did comprehend that she needed a phone.

It didn’t work, either. Nor did either of the Russos’ cell phones.

“Something must be down, some power line or something,” he said, clearly not grasping telephone technology.

She debated for two seconds about writing down Yolanda’s cell phone number at the safe house. She knew she couldn’t. “When they work again, call this man,” she said, scribbling down Pat’s cell phone number. “Tell him there’s an emergency at Yolanda Sanchez’s old place. The one she shares with Tria…” She didn’t know Tria’s last name.

“Tell him I went there,” she finished, running out the front door.

She yelled, “David? David, where are you? I need you!”

There was no answer; she ran back inside her house and threw on the clothes she had worn to the Cloisters, trying her phone over and over again. No luck.

Take the gun.

She didn’t have time to process the rightness—the illegality—of carrying a concealed, unlicensed weapon. She rummaged in Jean-Marc’s equipment bag for ammo, found a small military-green box tucked into a side pocket and put it and the gun in her purse.

“David!” she tried again when she went back onto the stoop.

She looked in all directions before she fled down the street with her purse over her shoulder, waving her hands as she reached the main thoroughfare. An on-duty cab shot to the curb. She gave him Yolanda’s—Tria’s—address and his face lit up at the prospect of such a long trip.

They bolted into the snowy night. Izzy alternated between dialing Pat and the safe house, but her phone still didn’t work.

Ten minutes into the cab ride, a call came through.

“Iz?” It was Pat. “A Mr. Russo called. Said you have an emergency.”

She took a breath. “I think John Cratty is at Yolanda Sanchez’s apartment. It’s on Lexington. I think there’s an attack in progress on her roommate.”

“The vic call you?”

How to explain? “No. And I don’t have her number. But Yolanda does.”

“So you know she’s in trouble because…?”

She shut her eyes tightly. “Please, Pat, just go with me on this. Please. One of us should get the number now and call now.”

He hesitated. She mouthed, Please, and he said, “Okay. I’ll get it.”

“Put me on hold,” she requested, afraid that if she disconnected, she might have trouble reconnecting.

“Okay. Hold on.”

She heard white noise. Her heartbeat drummed against her rib cage as she waited. What was happening at Tria’s? She thought about the baby. She thought about what she would do to John Cratty if he hurt either one of them.

Izzy aged a year before Pat got back on. “I’ve got Tria’s landline, but we can’t get a connection. Yolanda says she doesn’t own a cell.”

“Oh, God. Please, Pat. Go check it out.” She clutched her phone in both her hands, speaking into the mouthpiece as if the connection depended on sheer physical effort. “Please go unofficially. Can you do that?” Was this the right thing to do? Should she tell him to take a SWAT team?

“Iz, what’s going on?”

She closed her eyes. Her head was beginning to ache. She felt a coldness and then…

Ask him to trust you.

“It’s one of those feelings again,” she admitted. “And I can’t go forward on it any further than asking you to help me. Off the record.”

It was his turn to pause. And then he said, “A feeling.”

“Yes. Like with my father. Like you said you had once,” she reminded him. “Please.”

“Iz…”

“Please.”

“Okay, darlin’. I’ll go over there.”

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“You at home?”

“No,” she said. “I’m going there, too.”

“Iz, I’m a cop. Let me handle it. I’ll give you her number. Go home and keep calling her. Let me know if you get through.”

But she couldn’t turn back now. She had a…knowing…that she had to go, too.

Jehanne, help me, she whispered.

Then her cell phone went dead.

She punched redial. It was out. She tried Yolanda’s number. Nothing. She wondered if she had just created another ward.

“I undo it,” she murmured. “The phone works. Please.”

But nothing happened.

The cab drove through the traffic and the snow. Still, it seemed that they were crawling along. She touched Cratty’s glove again.

Fresh images blasted into her brain.

“Yolanda brought something of mine here,” Cratty said as he held the baby against his chest. “And you’re going to give it to me.”

Images from the TV played across his face, cutting his handsome features into a jagged mosaic. The chubby-cheeked baby cooed and laughed, reaching out his hands to his mother.

“Calvin!” Tria cried, weeping. She was seated cross-legged on the floor beside the TV with her arms spread in front of her. Blood trailed from both nostrils, and her eyes were puffy. “I don’t know who you are! I don’t know what you want!”

“Move it!” Izzy shouted at the cabbie. “Oh, God, hurry up!”

“What’s your problem?” the cabbie demanded. She saw his wary gaze in the mirror and realized she had to stay calm.

“No problem,” she replied tersely.

They glided along, into the madhouse of Manhattan traffic. Her sense of urgency was overpowering. Several times she nearly bolted at stoplights—would have, if there had been a door handle—and each time reminded herself that she couldn’t run all the way uptown.

So she stayed in the back, clutching the glove, trying the phone, willing more images to flood her mind—although the truth was, she didn’t really want to see anything more. She had to, but nothing in her was prepared to watch a tragedy unfold.

C’mon, c’mon, Izzy begged. She squeezed the glove. She felt, sensed, nothing. It was as Jean-Marc told her—her Gift came and went.

Just like David.

Scanning the landscape, she put the glove in her coat pocket, opened up her purse and touched the gun. Moving slowly, she eased it out and slipped it out of sight—beneath her coat. She flipped open the box of ammo. There were twelve cartridges inside, maybe .9 mm. Despite her fear of guns, she had grown up in a policeman’s household and she had a rudimentary knowledge about weaponry.

Still, she wasn’t sure how to go about loading it. It wasn’t a straightforward pistol or revolver, by any means.

She paused a moment and closed her eyes. She mouthed, Jehanne, help me.

The back of her head ached, as if she had drunk ice water too fast. Then the answer came to her, as clearly as if she were seeing a blueprint. Holding the revolver in her right hand, she pushed a small flange on the left side of the frame forward with her thumb. So far, so good.

Next she pushed the cylinder out of the frame with her left hand, revealing the six empty chambers. She transferred the gun to her left hand, keeping a grip on the cylinder and frame. The cartridges looked like extruded lipsticks; she loaded the first one, pressing the cartridge in nose-first. She felt rather than heard a click and glanced carefully at the cab driver. He hadn’t seemed to notice.

She loaded five more cartridges. The revolver was significantly heavier. She snapped the cylinder shut.

Then she dug back into her purse and pulled Jean-Marc’s card out of her wallet, completing the action that had precipitated this rescue mission. Ironically, she was no longer certain that she should call him. He would be crazed if he knew what she was doing. She put the card back in her wallet.

Finally they reached the outskirts of Two-Seven’s territory. Tria’s building was ten, maybe twelve blocks away.

You have to get out of the cab, a voice said inside her head. Her voice. Now.

But so far away?

She was having a conversation with herself. In two voices. It freaked her out. Being freaked out didn’t matter right now.

“Pull over,” she said. “I’ll get out here.”

The cabbie screamed across four lanes of traffic with amazing alacrity. She opened her purse and handed way too much money to him.

The door unlocked and as she leaped out into the night, a euphoric burst of energy sent her bounding down the street. Passersby gave her looks as she crashed through snowdrifts, seemingly unhampered by her heavy clothing and boots.

In the falling snow, she raced up four blocks, then five, as the buildings around her grew seedier, the pedestrians, less well-clothed against the elements. She smelled spicy food and sweat; she smelled cheap wine and marijuana. She kept going. She ran for blocks and blocks. She was nearly there.

Finally she hung a left.

And came face-to-face with John Cratty.

He was retrieving his overcoat out of the passenger side of the front seat of a champagne-colored Camry, and he jerked when he saw her. He turned to face her, wearing the same suit as in her vision.

“You bastard, did you find what you were looking for?” she blurted. Then she realized that was the wrong thing to say; she had just told him way too much about what she was doing here.

He frowned, backing away from her, the coat remaining in the car.

“What?” he said calmly. But his eyes were darting left, right—possibly searching for her backup.

Or for witnesses.

Her heart skipped beats. Her face tingled.

I am facing a career police detective.

Correction—I am two feet away from a ruthless felon.

I have a gun in my pocket.

He put his hand toward the inside of his jacket. She was certain he was wearing a holster.

She dug into her pocket with her right hand and clasped the gun.

It’s a revolver, she reminded herself. It doesn’t have a safety.

I’m not licensed to carry this.

If I pull it out, I need to be willing to use it.

All her thoughts shot through her mind in a microsecond.

And then she showed him the gun.

His eyes widened. “What’s up?” he asked with such innocence that if she hadn’t seen what she had seen, she would believe that he truly didn’t know.

“I saw you. I saw what you were doing to them,” she said through clenched teeth. She remembered to cup her right hand with her left to give herself as steady an aim as possible. She also remembered to let half her breath out and then to hold it. Now she was as steady as she was going to get. All she had to do was pull the trigger.

“Doing to them…?” His hand remained inside his suit. She was terrified. He could probably shoot her dead before she squeezed the trigger. He knew what he was doing. She was only going on instinct.

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

She wondered if he had activated a pager instead of reaching for a weapon—calling for his own version of backup. She wanted to check it out, survey her surroundings, but she had already engaged the enemy. She didn’t have the luxury of second thoughts now.

“You’re not leaving the scene,” she said, exhaling even though she knew it was ruining her aim. As it was, her hands were beginning to shake. “I’ll shoot you if I have to.”

“The scene of what?” His eyes focused on her revolver. “That’s a Medusa. What on earth are you doing with it?”

He wasn’t afraid of her. She figured that was bad news…for her.

“John,” she said, trying familiarity to throw him off. “I know you just left Tria’s place. I know why you were there.” But she didn’t know what he had done to them—if he had killed them. She prayed that Pat had already arrived and was rendering assistance. She could still hear Tria pleading, Calvin crying.

“But I didn’t,” he told her. “I didn’t just leave…Tria’s place.” He hesitated as if he didn’t know who this Tria was.

Maybe I was wrong after all, she thought, even more frightened.

And then, faster than she could react, he rushed her.

He grabbed the gun out of her hand and trained it on her, standing close. She could feel his body heat, smell his coffee breath.

He held out his free hand as he took a couple of steps away. “Drop your purse on the sidewalk.”

“John, I called Kittrell,” she said. Her heart picked up speed until it beat out of rhythm so hard and so fast she was afraid her head would burst. “He’s on his way.”

“He’s not on his way here,” he said. “I saw how shocked you looked when you ran into me.”

“Pat will hunt you,” she reminded him. “He’ll catch you.”

“Because he’s your hero? Ain’t gonna happen, Iz.” He gave her a wink. “Drop your purse. Now.”

She thought about her glowing palm. Thought about the last time that she had used it, when she’d set her house on fire.

She dropped her purse on the sidewalk.

“You’ve seen the movies,” he drawled. “Kick it toward me.”

Her arms at her sides, she formed a palm strike with her right hand. Tried to concentrate as best she could.

Sent up another prayer to Jehanne of Arc.

Aiming her own revolver straight at her, Cratty bent down and grabbed up her purse. He tucked it under his arm.

“Now, just walk away, Iz,” he said gently. “There is nothing in me that wants to hurt you.”

Her palm began to feel warm.

Can I do it? Will I do it?

“John,” she said. “Please.”

“Don’t try to stall me.” He aimed the gun at her.

“You won’t shoot me.” Her voice cracked.

“I will,” he replied.

She fell to the ground as she extended her palm toward him. A white sphere of flame erupted from her hand and slammed into his car.

The Camry exploded into a fireball.

In the deafening roar, Izzy screamed and rolled away, covering her head. All she felt was flame; then the sidewalk cracked as a chunk of burning metal crashed into it. More pieces of metal cannonaded at her. She propelled herself forward—hands, knees, whatever worked—trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and them.

She scrambled to her feet as the roaring blast chased her around the corner.

Onlookers were racing past her; a man grabbed her and helped her up.

It was David of the red-gelled hair.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “Where were all your people?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His face was ashen. “Let me get you out of here.”

She shook her head. “You come with me.”

David in tow, she doubled around, racing back to the scene. The car was a whirlwind of flame. People were shouting “Call 911!” as others whipped out cell phones.

She scanned the area. There was no sign of Cratty. Or of her purse.

Edging into the throng, she raised on tiptoe to look at the car. David held out his arm protectively.

“Is anyone inside?” she asked a tall man beside her.

“God I hope not,” he replied, squinting into the smoke.

She shut her eyes. The heat from the oily, rank fire slapped her cheek.

I will any one inside to be saved, she thought. I will no harm to come from this.

She said to the tall man, “Can you let me through?”

“Ms. DeMarco, please, don’t,” David pleaded.

“Kid’s right,” the tall man said. “You don’t want to go any closer.”

In the distance, sirens screamed. She realized what that meant. Police. Questions.

And she was supposed to be keeping a low profile.

David said again, “Let me get you out of here. Please.”

“All right. Come on.” She grabbed his hand and took off running, heading for Tria’s building.

G roups were mobbing the streets around Tria’s building heading for a better view of the show. Violence was common in the hood, but car bombs were something special.

Izzy and David ran the next block together, catching each other as they lost their footing on patches of ice. As they reached the opposite side of Tria’s street, Pat flew out of Tria’s building. He saw Izzy and headed straight for her.

David said, “Who is that?”

“A friend,” she said. “Give me some room to talk to him.”

David huffed. “I have to protect you.”

Like you did before?

“It will be all right,” she said.

He stayed where he was while Izzy loped toward Pat.

“Is Tria all right?” she called out.

He nodded, meeting her at the corner. “She’s fine. No Cratty. No attack.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Guess you were wrong this time.”

“That’s Cratty’s car,” she said, gesturing to the billowing smoke, ebony against an obsidian sky. “I was coming around the corner on foot and I ran into him.”

His eyes widened. “What? Did he hurt you?” Anger lowered his voice to a hoarse growl.

“No. I had a gun. He took it away.” She hesitated. “Then the car exploded. I didn’t see what happened to him. He wasn’t in the car.”

Approaching sirens shrieked in counterpoint to her heartbeat. Pat’s cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his suit pocket, listening for a few seconds.

“On my way,” he said, disconnecting. He put it back in his pocket.

“I’m going over there,” he told her. “See if I can render assistance.”

“I’ll check on Tria,” she said. At his uncertain frown, she quickly added, “That red-haired guy on the corner. He’ll go with me. I’ll be all right.”

“Okay,” he decided. “I’ll try to catch up with you after I see what’s up. You’ve got your phone?”

She shook her head. “He took my purse.”

Pat stared at her. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he thought I had another gun in it.” Or some pepper spray. I never carried any weapons, yet I live in New York. Now I know why.

“You call me, then,” he told her. “From Tria’s.”

“I will.”

He cocked his head, appraising her. She felt exposed, vulnerable. What should she tell him? What could she tell him?

He said, “We have to talk.”

“All right,” she replied.

He gave her one last look, then turned on his heel and ran toward the smoke. A fire engine screamed down the street as if it were chasing him.

She waved a hand at David, who had been loitering about fifteen feet down the sidewalk. He sprinted to her side and she started across the street, watching the cars as they slowed to gawk at the billow of smoke that was Cratty’s car.

She pointed dead-ahead and said, “We’re going into that building. Do you have any weapons?”

He said calmly, “Yes, Guardienne. I’m heavily armed.”

“Good,” she told him. “And I’m not the Guardienne.”

They came abreast of the loiterers—four older teenagers, a man in his mid-twenties, like her and one little boy who couldn’t be older than ten. Sullen and hostile in gray, black and dark brown hoodies and heavy jackets, they stared in silence at Izzy and David as the two approached the entrance.

Izzy didn’t know if it would be better to look at them or to just walk on by. Was staring at them showing strength or being confrontational? Avoiding their gazes—a display of weakness or a way to avoid trouble?

In the end, she glanced coolly at the man, who didn’t react at all. Five faces stared at her without moving a muscle. The sixth, the little boy, muttered something under his breath and the man drew up one side of his mouth, amused.

The sharp stench of urine hit Izzy’s nostrils as they entered the lobby. The floor was dirty and wet, and soggy newspapers and circulars had clumped together like snowdrifts.

The pack of guys stared back at her with narrow and predatory eyes. They reminded her of wolves. Which, she supposed, was what they were. Or what life had turned them into.

“I can protect you best in the elevator,” David informed her. “It’s the most direct route.”

She wasn’t sure about his being able to protect her anywhere. She didn’t like being back here at all. But she pushed the button, and when the elevator arrived immediately, David smiled faintly, as if he had had something to do with that. She didn’t think he could perform magic.

Once inside, she said, “How did I slip past you? I shouted for you until I was hoarse.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t even see you leave your house. I had a scrying stone in my pocket and I just happened to look at it just as you got in the cab.” He showed it to her; it resembled the crystals Jean-Marc had shown her in the Cloisters. “I started following you but I lost you again for a while. When you used magic, I saw you right away.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m in deep shit.”

“Maybe it had something to do with the wards,” she said. “I think I cast one of my own.” Now that she had a moment to reflect on it, she was amazed that it may have worked.

“He’ll have my head,” David said. “God.” With a long, heavy sigh, he leaned back against the elevator wall.

And we’re back to being careful not to piss off Jean-Marc, she thought.

Riding the rest of the way in silence, they made no stops other than to Tria’s floor. The doors slid open into gloom and stink.

Tria’s front door was vibrating with loud gangsta music. Izzy knocked hard, bellowing, “Tria? It’s Izzy DeMarco.”

Just in case any bad guys don’t know I am around, she thought, regretting the blunder. I’m helpful that way.

She pounded again. The music died away and the door opened.

Tria stood before them in a pair of sweats and a sweater overlaid with an oversize Shakira T-shirt. She was fine, just as Pat had said.

I saw what could have happened. Not what did, she realized. Just like with my father. Maybe I prevented it. Stopped Cratty before he got to her.

Tria was wide-eyed. “Damn, girl! There was a cop just here. He told me about Yolanda!”

“What did the detective say to you?” Izzy asked.

Tria looked at David. “You another cop?” she asked suspiciously.

David shook his head. “I’m a friend of…Izzy’s,” he said, as if using her nickname was a form of swearing.

“He drove me here,” Izzy lied.

“Okay. Well.” Tria twisted the turquoise bead at the end of one of her cornrows as Chango flailed his fists at Izzy, and opened the door a little wider.

Izzy and David followed Tria into the apartment. Chango’s head flopped against Tria’s chest and she absently kissed the top of his head.

“He said Yo got busted for helping some guy sell drugs. They thought he might come to my place to look for them.” Tria pressed her fingertips against her forehead. Her nails were very long and very fake. “I cannot believe it!” She held her baby tightly. “What was that big boom? That man flew out of here and—”

“It’s all right,” Izzy said. “It’s a car. No one was in it.”

“Damn this neighborhood,” Tria said, her brown eyes flashing with anger.

“So, do you think Yolanda was holding for him?” Izzy persisted.

Tria’s mouth fell open. “Anything they find here belongs to him, not me!”

Tria was assuming there would be a search. That hadn’t occurred to Izzy, and she wondered if Pat would indeed do a follow-up.

Then she realized she needed to do some follow-up of her own, face the music. She said to David, “I need to use your phone to call Jean-Marc.”

David paled.

“I don’t have his number,” she continued. “You must have it programmed into your phone, though.”

“I do.” With a heavy sigh, he punched a couple of buttons and handed the phone to her.

The other end rang once and was immediately answered.

“Hello?” It was Sauvage.

“It’s Izzy DeMarco,” Izzy said. “I need to speak to Jean-Marc.”

“Hi!” Sauvage trilled. “How are you? He’s, like, doing this big ritual.” She lowered her voice. “Naked.”

“He’ll want you to interrupt him,” she said to Sauvage. “Perhaps with a robe.”

“No way,” she said. “If he stops, like, this guy in New Orleans might die. He told me not to—”

Isabelle? Jean-Marc’s voice was inside Izzy’s head.

Oui, she said in French, so he would know she was speaking to him.

Tell me what’s going on.

She decided to go into the bathroom. There was more privacy there than anywhere else in the tiny apartment.

As she felt for the light switch and flicked it on, she began the story, filling him in on the glove and the vision. How she ran outside for help.

He interrupted her almost at once, speaking to her not in her head, but through the phone.

“Are you telling me that David didn’t come when you called for him? None of the bodyguards came?”

“I think I had just put a new ward on the house,” she replied. “It blocked him, somehow. He showed up later.”

“Hostie. What precisely did you say when you set the ward?”

“I don’t remember. Something about protecting myself. It interfered with the phones, too.”

“Why did you do it? Set the ward?”

“I felt…something felt wrong. In the air.” She cleared her throat. “But there’s something else I need to tell you right away.”

“If you please,” he said.

“After I got in the cab, I did find John Cratty. On the street. And I pulled the gun on him. He took it away from me. I tried to retaliate, and I—I made his car explode.”

“He took your gun?”

She winced as he erupted into a barrage of French. She couldn’t tell if he was yelling at her or just swearing in general, or what.

“Tell me it wasn’t loaded,” he said.

She remained silent.

He swore some more.

“Isabelle, that gun is magical. Which caliber did you put in?”

“They looked like .9 mm cartridges,” she replied. “They were the only ones I had.”

More harsh, guttural French followed her disclosure.

“Why? What do they do?” she asked.

“They’re a form of concentrated spell,” he said. “The .9mm can stop the heart of the person who is shot with it.”

She frowned even though he couldn’t see her. Or so she assumed. “I don’t see how that’s magical. You mean, kill them, right? By shooting them?”

“Non, non, the cartridges won’t pierce the skin. When you press the trigger, the cartridge dissolves and the spell is cast.”

She jerked, shaken. “And just when were you going to mention this to me?”

“I knew the gun wasn’t loaded, and I knew we were going to the shooting range tonight. And I told you to stay inside your house!”

“My God! You are so patronizing!” she shouted at him.

“I am not!” he shouted back. Then he lowered his voice. “What have you done, Isabelle?”

They both fell silent. Her heart was pounding. What if Cratty aimed that gun at her father? At Pat?

“You have to help me find him,” she said.

“You can bet I’ll be looking for him. But if the Malchances get hold of him first, they could attempt a psychometric search for you.”

She puffed air out of her cheeks, making a corkscrew curl bounce above her right eyebrow. “How would they do that?”

“Isabelle, you forget that we are Gifted. We can do all sorts of things the Ungifted can’t. If he uses the gun, they could attempt a trace on the discharge of magic. Like radar on a screen.”

“Then they would find him.” She took a breath. “And they’d ask him about me.”

“Exactement,” he said. She heard him drinking some kind of liquid. An image of him guzzling a bottle of water popped into her mind—not a real image, just a fantasy.

In which he was naked.

She leaned her forehead against the bathroom wall. “He also took my purse. Your business card was in it,” she said. “If anyone finds it, they’ll know I’m in contact with you.”

“Go home,” he ordered her. “Immediately.”

“No way,” she said. “I need to help look for him,” she said. “I can do some footwork, search for him at his usual places. Ask around.”

“Isabelle, you are the next Guardienne. You are not a police detective. Vous comprenez? There is no one in New York who is less expendable than you.”

“But my father—” She checked the clock. Eleven. He was still on the job.

“The precinct house is well warded. So is your house. He’s safe, at least for the moment.”

“What about Pat?” she said.

“We can place guards around his home. I have an address for him now.”

“Guards who will do as good a job at protecting him as they did me?” she asked. “He aimed that gun straight at me, Jean-Marc. Where were your glorious operatives then? Where were they when I was shouting for David’s help?”

He said, “He won’t be guarding you any longer. There are already new operatives in place where you are. I put them there to monitor that location, but I’m going to send them up to you after we disconnect.”

She didn’t know what to say or to do next. She was afraid for Pat, afraid for her father. Afraid for herself.

“Please, if you’re on the street, it will dilute my resources,” Jean-Marc continued. “I’ll have to protect you and look for John Cratty and the gun at the same time.”

“All right.” She sighed. “But I’m not finished here. I’m not leaving until I’m sure Tria and her baby are safe.”

He started to say something. She cut him off. “This is not open for discussion. I’ll check back in with you in a while.”

“D’accord.” He sounded tired. “Put David on, please.”

Izzy left the bathroom. David was pacing in Tria’s dark bedroom; he stopped when he saw her by the light of the bathroom.

She handed him the phone and said, “Jean-Marc wants to speak to you.”

David swallowed, nodded, and shut Tria’s bedroom door after Izzy went out.

She crossed into the front room and sat beside Tria on the couch. Dazed, Tria fed Calvin a bottle as she held him in her arms.

“I can’t believe that bitch brought drugs into my home!”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Isabelle said. “But Detective Kittrell knows that Yolanda was involved in a drug scheme, and the police may conduct a search.”

Tria jostled Calvin and shook her head. “I don’t trust cops. They plant stuff.”

“Detective Kittrell would never do that,” she assured her, knowing it was true.

Next Izzy called Pat. He, too, answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” she said. “You find anything?”

“It’s his car. They’ve put the call out. We’re scouring the area, knocking on doors. I’m getting a warrant for Tria’s.”

“Pat, if you apprehend, don’t get too close to Cratty,” she said urgently. “His ammo—I think he has dum-dums in his weapon.” Those were a form of ammunition that exploded upon entry, creating a far larger hole than the original entry wound. They were illegal in warfare and, of course, on the street.

“I’m a careful sort,” he assured her.

“I’m serious. Please. Call it another funny feeling.” She cleared her throat. “My timing may be off, but you can see I’m on the right track at least.”

“Okay, Izzy. I hear you.”

Do you really? She felt thwarted, her hands tied.

Pat returned, and Tria consented to allow him inside. David hovered, looking worried, and she and Pat moved into the hallway with the door open, speaking in soft voices.

He said, “We were already in the process of getting a search warrant for this place. We sped it up because of the car. Roger Thurman’s bringing it.” Thurman was another detective in the Two-Seven. “If you don’t want to get involved, you need to go before he shows up.”

“Thank you,” she said, moved that he would protect her like this. “You may need me as a witness. I talked to him.”

“I can probably make this work without getting you in the thick of it,” he said. “But if there’s something you want me to know, tell me.” His green eyes were hooded, probing. She knew his cases had a high conviction rate. She imagined criminals confessing all kinds of things to him.

What did she want him to know? Only everything. She wanted like anything to tell him about the gun, and Cratty, and the magic-based operatives Jean-Marc had promised would be protecting him as he slept.

“I—I saw it,” she blurted. “It came into my head. Like with my father.” Why did she feel like she was lying to him?

She added, “Please don’t tell them. I’ll never get into the Academy.”

“And I’ll never get another promotion,” he said wryly. “This happen often, seeing things like this?”

“This is only the second time,” she answered, trying to sound honest, despite knowing that trying to sound honest would make her sound guilty.

He raised his brows. “You okay?”

She swallowed hard. Her words caught in her throat, and although she planned to nod, she shook her head.

He drew her into his arms. For an instant she resisted and then let herself be comforted. Let herself feel the sheer, unvarnished terror that had not left her since Cratty pointed the gun at her. Since seeing him brutalize Tria. Since the fireball had erupted from her palm.

Pat’s chest was hard and his heartbeat was steady and sure. He was a rock.

She said against his chest, “About tomorrow night. I’ll check in with you after we both get some rest.” She had to know he was safe. She had to be with him.

I’m in love with him.

It hit her hard.

I can’t be. Not now. There’s too much going on.

He pulled back, smiling gently, understanding that she was changing the dynamic between them. He leaned forward and kissed her.

“I’ll be a while,” he said, “but I’ll get you home.”

She said quickly, “I want to be there when my father gets in. His shift is almost over. My friend David will take me.” She indicated David, who was seated beside Tria on her couch.

“Kind of young for you,” Pat said, as if to take the edge off the fact that Izzy said nothing more, made no explanation of who David was. “He brought you here?”

“Yes,” she lied, aware that it was a messy lie, made a little cleaner through repetition—first to Tria and then to Pat. But she couldn’t do better at the moment.

“Maybe we should post some guys at your house,” Pat considered.

“Cratty’s not going to go there,” Izzy argued, alarmed that they would run into Jean-Marc’s operatives. And then reconsidering. What good had his people done her? What if Cratty did show?

But did she want an innocent cop to go down?

His cell phone rang. He said, “Got it.” Disconnected. “It’s Thurman,” he said. “No sign of Cratty, but he’s got the warrant. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“I’m going, then.” She touched him, attempting to send him some psychic reassurance. “We’ll be okay for the night. He wouldn’t come to our place now.”

Maybe her attempt to manipulate him worked. He sighed and said, “I don’t like letting you go alone.” She meant without him, and she knew it was a capitulation: he was staying to conduct the search. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “I need to stay here.” He meant to keep an eye on Tria, make sure she didn’t dispose of any contraband. “Call me.”

She said, “All right.”

Izzy said goodbye to Tria, who had made some calls of her own. A cousin was on the way to collect her and Chango.

“Thank you for stepping up,” Tria said to Izzy as the two women embraced. “You had my back. I won’t forget it.”

Izzy stepped into the elevator with David. As they went down, David’s cell phone rang.

“Nice range,” she observed; seeing how white he had gone, she figured the caller was Jean-Marc.

“Yessir,” he said, and handed the phone to Izzy.

“The operatives will meet you. They have talismans for you,” Jean-Marc said.

Just then, they reached the lobby. The elevator doors opened, revealing the scary pack of homeys who had ogled her on the way into the building. In the dim light, their eyes seemed to gleam, their features to sharpen. The young boy with them grinned at Izzy with the look of a person twice his age.

Izzy took an involuntary step backward.

“Jean-Marc?” she asked shrilly into the phone.

“It’s all right,” he echoed.

“Jean-Marc sent us,” the oldest one—the leader—said to Izzy. “We mean you no harm, jolie maîtresse.”

David looked from him to Izzy and back again. “You’re on our side?”

“We are your side,” the little boy shot back.

“Bienvenue, Guardienne,” the young man said. “A votre service, us crazy Cajuns.” His face seemed to have changed again. His almond eyes peered out at her as if he was wearing a mask.

“Why didn’t you just tell me who they were?” she asked David.

He shook his head as Jean-Marc said into her ear, “He didn’t know.”

“We were told not to break cover unless Jean-Marc told us to,” he replied. “Alors, Guardienne. We have to go, us.”

“Go with them,” Jean-Marc instructed her. “The leader is Andre. I have to go. I need to conclude my ritual. If you have any problems, call.”

“Sure thing,” she said tersely.

The others surrounded Izzy in a block, excluding David. The leader—Andre—said to him, “Jean-Marc, he want you à la maison. Take your own car and go back.”

David licked his lips and said to Izzy, “I’m sorry.” Before she could reply, he walked ahead of them, out of the building, and jogged down the street to the right.

To Izzy’s left, a black van idled at the curb, its exhaust a foggy billow that curled into the inky sky. A young woman with cornrows sat at the wheel, listening to bouncy accordion music and moving her shoulders to the beat.

Andre slid back the panel of the van and climbed in. After an inspection, he gestured for Izzy to come inside.

There were no chairs, only heaps of white satin cushions on the floor. Every inch of the ceiling and sides was covered with shiny religious symbols—crosses, Stars of David, ankhs, jeweled hands and eyes. They twinkled and jingled as she crawled onto the piles of pillows.

There was a street sign fastened to the driver’s chair. It read Rue de Bourbon.

Andre shut the panel, then climbed into the passenger seat beside the driver.

None of the others got into the van. She was on alert. She said, “Where’s everyone else going?”

“We’re going to form a caravan, us,” the woman with cornrows told her, looking at her in the rearview mirror. She grinned. “Like a Gypsy caravan, n’est-ce pas?”

Did her features elongate, become wolflike? Did Andre, seated beside her, let out a low howl?

The van pulled away.

Izzy said, “Who are you people?”

“Amis, chère Guardienne,” the woman said. “Friends. Andre—” she gestured to the man “—and me, I am Claire.” She added, “We have talismans for you.”

Andre bent forward, then turned around and handed her a small white satin sack. Inside were six smaller bags about the size of a quarter and weighing just as much, each tied with a piece of ivory-colored cord.

She gathered them with both hands and said, “What are these?”

“Protective amulets,” Andre told her. “Jean-Marc made them for you. Everybody ’as a set, so if we see you, we give them to you.”

“What’s in them?” She tried unsuccessfully to untie the cord.

“Beacoup de mojo.” The woman nodded. “Things to keep you safe, Guardienne.”

“Do you have any for Pat or Tria? Or the baby?”

He shook his head. “No. They will only work for you.”

“I see.”

Suddenly she was overcome with fatigue. Her head lolled forward; she sank down, down into the satin cushions.

She thought of Pat and whispered, “Jehanne, protect him.”

And then she was asleep.

 

In the nightmare world, Izzy saw with the eyes of a Gifted. Saw a tragedy, a sin, a vision; a voice begged her to remember.

John Cratty and Julius Esposito, the new hire in Prop with the processed hair, stood in the shadows of the fifties-era Colonial in Newton, New Jersey. The gibbous moon glowed down on them, hiding Esposito’s face within a mantle of angled shadows. Around his neck, he wore a voodoo gris-gris of chicken feet, rooster feathers and the withered fingers of dead men.

Esposito’s voice was sibilant and snakelike as he reached into a black leather pouch, extracting a handful of sleeping powder and murmured, “Yolanda Sanchez is inside. I’ll get you within close range. Just aim, and pull the trigger. The gun will take care of the rest. No Yolanda, no testimony.”

He flung the powder at the house. It fluffed into the night sky, dispersed by a sharp winter wind. The air smelled musty, tired, and old.

“They’ll sleep now,” he assured Cratty.

In a borrowed overcoat, Cratty was sweating and his hands were shaking, but he managed a grimace meant to be a smile as he said, “What is that stuff? Where did you get it?”

“A deal is a deal,” Esposito replied, ignoring the questions. “I told you about her betrayal of you. I told you about the wire, and I got you here. It’s payback time. Tell me where you got that unusual gun of yours.”

In her sleep, Izzy moaned. A voice whispered to her, You have more enemies than you can possibly imagine. This one came to the precinct because he detected magic. He has been searching for you just like the others. Now he knows who you are. Remember this when you wake up.

Back in the nightmare, Cratty was just finishing up his wild story about how Izzy DeMarco had blown up his car.

Esposito said thoughtfully, “You should kill her, too.”

I zzy, who had successfully beat Big Vince home from his shift, had awakened with a start in Gino’s bed around five in the morning, trying to remember the vestiges of the horrible dream she had had, but failing. Then she discovered the little white bags pressed around her fully clothed body. Someone had put her to bed and taken care to protect her.

 

Now it was 9:00 a.m., and she was coming into the precinct as Pat had requested. Her father, unaware of the events of the previous night, squinted at her and said, “This is just for today, to show your lockers to the brass. You’re taking that time off. Got it?”

She nodded, aware that not having to show up at work every day would make her current situation easier.

What is my current situation? she wondered. Learning to become some kind of magical ninja?

Big Vince gazed at her, studying her face, sighing and nodding to himself as if coming to a decision. “I want us to talk to Father Raymond about the miracle. About Ma saving me from that bullet.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Sure, Big Vince.”

He crossed himself. “I always said your mother was a saint. I just never realized…” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

Izzy had no idea what to say next, so she kept her own counsel. She was awash in guilt. And yet…wasn’t it a miracle that her father had come out of that fiery building unscathed?

Two-Seven was in an uproar. Prop was still in lockdown; Cratty was still at large, Julius Esposito was missing and a search for him was being conducted. Though he was formerly not a suspect, he was one now.

Izzy spent her day making statement after statement—in interview rooms, in the break room, in the Prop room. In Captain Clancy’s office, in other offices. She showed Internal Affairs the Prop logbook, booted up records on the Dread Machine, opened up her lockers. She had no idea how any of this was going to affect the ongoing cases with evidence stored in the cage.

She wished she could tell them about her visions, but she knew not to go there.

Whenever she had a moment to herself—which was not often—she called Jean-Marc to check on the search for Cratty and her Medusa.

His answer was always the same: “Nothing yet.”

“How can that be, if you’re so all-magical?” she demanded, then lowered her voice as Captain Clancy shouldered past her, three men in suits in tow. They had the look and feel of attorneys.

“I know you’re worried about your father and…Kittrell,” he said, as if speaking Pat’s name cost him dearly. “I was able to make amulets for your father, but I need a sample from Kittrell.”

“What?”

“Of his DNA.”

“I say again—”

“His hair will work,” Jean-Marc said.

“Did you have my hair?” she asked him.

“From the carpet. When I did your CPR,” he assured her.

She remembered his hands on her breasts, the warmth of his crotch against hers. She pushed the memories out of her mind.

“What about my father?”

“I took some shavings from his razor when I warded your bathroom.”

She felt invaded. “What? You didn’t discuss that with me!”

“I didn’t feel I had to,” he replied. “Get some DNA from that man, so I can protect him for you.”

That man.

Pat checked in with her almost as often as she checked in with Jean-Marc, to see how she was holding up.

“The SNEU detail is uncovering all kinds of graft situations,” he told her as they ducked into the upstairs break room. “This place is as dirty as a pigpen.” He shook his head. “Makes a man long for the far more honest corruption of my home state of Texas.”

Before he could go on, one of the suits who had been walking with Captain Clancy appeared on their horizon.

“Ms. DeMarco? May I speak with you?” she inquired politely.

She started to follow, then said to Pat, “Nine tonight?”

His smile was sunlight. “That’s a plan, darlin’.”

One that could be altered at any moment, she understood. That was the nature of a cop’s life, even when his place of business wasn’t being turned upside down.

She reached for him and said, “Oh, stray hair,” and soundly pulled three strands of white-blond from his head.

“Ow!” he protested.

“Sorry. I thought they were loose,” she apologized.

As she walked away, she dropped them into the small manila evidence envelope she’d brought with her and placed it inside her purse.

“Samples,” she murmured to herself.

 

The day flew by, with no word on Cratty or the gun. At a little after three, she was released, back on leave unless they needed to ask more questions. Jean-Marc arrived in a cab three blocks down from the precinct house. His glamour today was that of a dusk-hued man in a beautiful suit—an African businessman, perhaps, or an ambassador. His new driver was the laughing “Gypsy” woman with the cornrows and the unusual French accent who had driven the van last night. She scanned the area as Izzy climbed in, rolling down the window.

Did she just sniff the air?

“Well?” Izzy asked Jean-Marc as the woman smiled at her in greeting and rolled her window back up. He handed her a Starbucks venti latte as if it were part of their regular routine. In turn she handed him the envelope with Pat’s hair in it.

He shook his head as he pocketed the envelope. “On Cratty? Nothing.”

“At all?” Her voice rose. She lowered it. “No leads?”

“None.” It was almost as if he enjoyed failing. He gestured to her drink. “It will get cold.”

“How can you have no leads?” she demanded. “You found me. How come you can’t find him?”

“I didn’t say I can’t,” he corrected. “I said I haven’t yet.” He indicated the envelope. “I’ll have six amulets for him before you leave my place tonight.”

“And I’ll be leaving early,” she added.

He said nothing, but he didn’t look happy.

They drove through the busy rush-hour traffic to the safe house. Sauvage was nowhere to be seen and the place echoed with silence.

Jean-Marc escorted her to the octagon room. He said, “Have a seat. I’ll bring you some wine. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

He was making her dinner?

“Where’s Sauvage?”

He moved his shoulders. “Boyfriend.”

She was flustered by the relief she felt. I don’t care about Jean-Marc’s personal life. It’s Pat I want.

When he came back with her wine, she took it, asking, “Why are your operatives so deferential to me? They work for you. For that matter, why are you? You’re not a de Bouvard.”

“You have the potential to be a Guardienne,” he said simply, sipping from his own glass, savoring the wine in his mouth. “Guardians are held in high esteem.”

“Does my family outrank yours?”

He shook his head. “We’re equals.”

“Who’s your Guardian?”

“My father.”

“Wow. You’re like a prince.”

He looked amused. He cradled his glass against his chest and inclined his head. “Not quite.”

“Will you become the Guardian…next?”

“The magic passes from one generation to the next,” he said, “but in our case, it’s via a ritual, and it’s voted on by our Council. I’ll probably become the Guardian of the House of the Shadows, but it’s not guaranteed.” He looked troubled. “The longer I stay away, the weaker my position.”

“So I’m holding you up, too,” she observed. Enough for him to fabricate a crisis so she’d blindly follow him anywhere?

“To put it bluntly, yes. But that’s not my concern at the moment,” he replied, saluting her with his glass. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Left alone, she drank her wine, got up and wandered past the books in the bookcases. One title jumped out at her: Gypsy Caravan: the Loupes-Garoux of New Orleans.

She pulled it out and flipped it open. It was a history of werewolves in New Orleans. Customs, Persecution, Susceptibility to Lunar Phases, Alliances and Wars with Vampires…

“This has to be a joke,” she said out loud, replacing the book on the shelf.

Jean-Marc said behind her, “What?”

“Nothing.” She didn’t want to discuss it. Didn’t want to know if he believed in werewolves and vampires…and if he would tell her that she should, too.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said.

It was delicious. He had made coq au vin—chicken with wine—noodles and carrots and fresh peas. She tried very hard not to ask if cooking dinner had taken precedence over looking for Cratty and the gun.

After dinner, he brought out some cheese and fruit and two glasses of something called armagnac, in honor of the side for which Jehanne fought. It tasted like brandy.

“You should open a restaurant,” she told him.

“Your family owns several of the finest restaurants in New Orleans,” he told her as he nibbled on a piece of Brie. “And hotels. And dry cleaners. Nearly all of which escaped harm from Hurricane Katrina. Which is not surprising.”

She was taken aback. She said, “Oh. Somehow the idea of owning businesses…”

His mouth quirked; his left brow tented. “You imagined they lived in a castle surrounded by a moat?”

She sipped her armagnac. “Something like that.”

“Well, they do live in a mansion in the swamp, so you’re not too far off.” He tapped his napkin to his lips. “Let’s train.”

She thought a moment. “I have dreamed of a mansion. And…something more.”

He regarded her with keen interest. “Can you tell me the details?”

She got quiet; she concentrated. Frustrated, she shook her head. “No.”

“Bon. Maybe later, we’ll investigate that,” he said. “Try to bring your dreams into your conscious awareness.”

“Sounds like fun,” she bit off.

“It’s not meant to be fun.” His mercurial temper flashed. “It’s meant to save lives.”

“I know. All right?” she snapped at him.

“Truce,” he said, flashing her a peace sign.

They changed into workout clothes, hers conveniently provided by Jean-Marc. She put on a snug sports bra under a black tank top, black tights and a pair of brand-new running shoes. Everything molded to her body and she felt nearly as naked as when Jean-Marc had straddled her, attempting to restart her heart.

He wore a pair of black sweats and a T-shirt similar to hers. He was wiry and muscular, like a dancer, with a rock-hard ass. The veins in his arms stood out in bold relief, evidence of a lot of physical training. He had big hands.

He was barefoot. She didn’t know why she found that disconcerting, but she did.

Then he showed her the bedroom reserved for her, magically lighting a fire by pointing at a pyramid of logs inside an immense stone fireplace. The flames flickered across his face as he drew her into a cavern dominated by a king-size canopy bed on a dais. The hangings were ivory damask and the now-familiar portrait of Joan of Arc was scrolled into the headboard. It was matched in a mosaic on the floor. Heavy, dark furniture sat in corners barely reached by light. A large, gray-stone fireplace faced the bed. It was a stern room, and she didn’t much care for it.

She said, “Why didn’t you perform CPR on me in here? In a bed?”

“Sauvage was in the library,” he said. “I went to her. She helped me bring you back to life.”

“I need to thank her,” Izzy murmured.

“That would be nice,” he concurred.

First he led her through a series of stretches. Then situps, pushups. It was like being in the Academy—or so she anticipated.

Maybe I will never go, she thought, disheartened.

“Do you know tai-chi?” he asked her.

When she nodded, he began to perform the first form, and she joined in.

“Tai-chi is the basis of many of our newer, danced spells,” he said as calmly as if he were discussing the merits of cardiovascular exercise. “We got the idea from a seminar with the House of Q’in.”

“You’re kidding.” The idea of their having seminars with each other was so bizarre that she had to stifle hysterical laughter.

He gave her a look, moving his arms first to the left, then straight ahead, as he pushed his left hand toward his right wrist. “It will all seem commonplace to you sooner than you anticipate.”

She moved in concert with him, aware that they were performing in perfect synchronization. The precision was exhilarating, even though she didn’t want to admit it, even to herself.

Mixed with the firelight were shimmers of blue light, a deep indigo energy emanating from him. Magic. She glanced in the full-length mirror he had set at the foot of her bed, searching for the white sparks he said she was throwing off. She saw none.

As they finished, Jean-Marc lowered his arms to his sides and breathed deeply in, out. She followed suit. She assumed it was to help them become centered and relaxed, but he was coiled as tightly as a spring. She was, too. She was aware of the space he filled in the room, and it was larger than he himself. He had a presence, an aura of command, and power. She felt herself responding to it, and tried hard not to. She wanted—needed—to be her own person around him.

Seemingly oblivious of her unease, he walked to a tray placed on the nightstand beside her bed. On it were two hand towels and two sports bottles of water. He blotted his face as he handed her the other towel, following it with one of the water bottles.

He tipped back his head and drank, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand as he said, “Your House and my House are part of a great alliance among the magical families called the Grand Covenate.”

“Yes, you mentioned that the first night,” she reminded him.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t know if you were listening to me.”

“I was. Mostly so I could figure out how to get away from you.”

He let that go. “What is permissible in one family may not be permissible in another. Occasionally we clash. Usually when one of the more…repressive groups does something we Europeans find distasteful.”

“Like what?” Izzy asked, scoffing as she shifted her weight and drank. “Virgin sacrifice?”

“Oui.” He recapped the water and put it back on the tray.

Shocked, Izzy paused from drying off her chest. “Well, I’m safe there.”

“I know.” When she looked him, he chuckled. “The auras of virgins are different.”

“You must be a laugh riot in a pickup bar.”

He paused. Then he unfolded the list she had compiled of people she wanted guarded, and studied it as he slung his towel around his neck and absently wiped his fingertips on the end.

“Speaking of sex.” He tapped the list. “Pat Kittrell lives in a gated apartment building. It’s proving difficult for us to protect him.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You promised—”

“You have a better chance at it than we do,” he went on, gazing expectantly at her.

When she didn’t appear to follow, he drawled, “Naked blindfolds.”

“What?”

He returned his attention to the list, but something indecipherable spilled over his features. A grin?

“Please. You had a life before all this happened.”

“Have. I have a life.”

“Sex magic is the strongest magic we have,” he said. “I guess you didn’t hear me say that.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, blowing a ringlet off her forehead.

“You’re telling me that sleeping with Pat will help keep him safe?”

“I thought you were already sleeping with him,” he said. “When two people are sexually connected, their auras merge. Their body language complements their partner’s. You two have all the signs.”

“Stay out of my bedroom.” She heard how that sounded, and wearily closed her eyes.

“He’s on your list,” Jean-Marc pointed out. “I’m trying to do as you have requested.”

“We’re not sleeping together,” she snapped. “We barely know each other.”

“Your souls know each other.”

“Mind your own business.”

“Everything about you is my business.”

He returned his attention to the list, tapping the tip of his finger on a name. “You can tell Big Vince a little bit about what’s going on. Last night he dreamed about his dead wife and she told him that you have a special bond with her.”

“How do you know that?”

He faced her squarely. “Because I gave him that dream.”

She uncrossed her arms.

“Like your dream about the mansion, he doesn’t remember this dream,” he added. “But tonight, he’ll have another. And in a couple of nights, you will probably be able to confide in him.”

“Wait.” She walked toward him and grabbed the list out of his hand. “Is that what you did to me? Brainwashed me with those horrible dreams, year after year?”

“You? Never,” he asserted. “We would never do such a thing.”

She didn’t believe him. But she said, “Could someone else do such a thing?”

“To you? I don’t know. Usually, it’s difficult to get past all the defenses a Gifted has set in place.” He tilted his head. “But you’re an anomaly.”

“Oh, thanks.”

She walked past him, planning to go into the bathroom and change back into her street clothes. She had come so close to believing all this.

He grabbed her wrist as she brushed by. “You’re a mystery, then.”

His scent, the electric current between them.

The magic.

It was strong, too strong.

“Let go of me,” she said in a deadly voice. “You lied to me about the gun, too, didn’t you? It doesn’t cast spells. It’s just a gun.”

He kept his hand wrapped around her wrist. “Why would I do that?”

“To manipulate me. To scare me. So I’d cling to you. Listen to you.” As she had tried to do to Pat. And failed.

He said evenly, “My entire life, I’ve been aware that I will probably rule my house. It has shaped me. I think first of the House of the Shadows, and then of myself. I believe in duty and obligation. And I was sent to be the Regent of your House by the Grand Covenate itself.”

He held up his hand to keep her from speaking. “I didn’t want to go, but I did. As I anticipated, I began making enemies immediately. I have done all I can to govern your House as if I were the true Guardian, and I have devoted years of my life to finding you.

“My job has been thankless. You can’t imagine how many Bouvards have tried to bribe me, and threaten me. There have been numerous attempts on my life. I am hated because I’m an outsider and yet, I am the titular head of your Family.”

She narrowed her eyes as she tried to get away from him. “I don’t ca—”

He wrapped his free hand around her bicep. She glared down at it pointedly.

“You barely know me, Isabelle. You probably don’t want to know me. But I’m the closest thing to a friend you have in this. You need to listen to me. You need to learn from me.”

“You’ve been playing me.” She jerked her arm. He let her go.

“Never,” he said. “I can’t. You’re Gifted. I can ‘play’ some Ungifted, but not all. Your father is sad and lonely. A dream of his lost love is a comfort to him. The thought that she has a bond with you, a special joy. Because you are adopted and he feels guilty for not telling you.”

“And you know this because you invaded his privacy, read his mind.”

He pressed his fingertips against her forehead, cupping the back of her head with his other hand, forcing her to submit to his ministrations. The now-familiar warmth oozed from his fingertips like warm oil.

“Sometimes you can see things outside yourself, even from far away,” he said. “Can you not? Sometimes they’re dreams. Sometimes they’re thoughts in another person’s mind. An Ungifted mind.”

He walked her to the mirror at the foot of the bed. Standing behind her as they both looked into the glass, he said, “Do you see your magic?”

She looked hard. Very faint crystalline sparkles whispered into being around her head and shoulders. They increased, until her silhouette was a neon glow of pure white light.

She covered her mouth with her hand.

“Alors.” Jean-Marc put his hand on her shoulder, leaning forward in his excitement. “Bon, c’est très bon, Isabelle. You’re focusing your powers.”

She shook her head. “This is crazy. All of it—”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t do that. Don’t deny it.”

The white light faded. She swallowed and moved away from him. He dropped his hand to his side, following her as she walked back toward the fireplace. She was suddenly, unaccountably, cold. She began to shiver.

“You haven’t asked me about your father,” he said. “For the record, we don’t know who he is. Or was. We don’t know a thing about him.”

He was right. She hadn’t asked. Of course she had wondered. If she believed, in the first place, that she was someone else’s daughter.

I can’t be. Big Vince is my father. He is, damn it.

“Why don’t you shower?” he suggested. “After, I have something I need to show you.”

“Show me now.”

He shook his head. “It’s important for you to cleanse your body of magical residue,” he said. “It builds up on our skin like a toxin. It can bring on chills, malaise.”

She said nothing.

He sighed.

“All right.” He turned on his heel and left the room.

She sank down beside the fireplace, shivering, chilled to her bones. A sob escaped her and she covered her mouth with her hand, on emotional overload. The idea that he was manipulating Big Vince, yet denying he had anything to do with her dreams. His cold way of dropping bombs of information on her. The pressure he placed on her. She began to shake in earnest, holding herself, moving closer to the fire.

Jean-Marc’s bare feet slapped on the stone as he returned.

He sat down beside her. On his lap he balanced an oval object that looked like a mirror, the reflective surface a shiny black. It was framed in gilt and studded with jewels.

“I promised you proof.”

He handed the oval object to her. She touched it experimentally, half expecting something like an electric shock. It came, almost on cue, and she started to let go of it.

He grabbed her wrist, preventing her. Gazed at her, his dark eyes flaring with blue light. She started to pull away again. He gripped her wrist more tightly.

“Hic incipit speculum Floron,” he intoned. “Fac fieri speculum…”

It was Latin. The room cooled, lowered, the way St. Theresa’s had during Mass. His fingers around her wrist grew icy, until she felt almost as if she were being held by a frozen, dead hand.

The blue light in his eyes swirled. Then it seemed to lift out of them and rotate in front of his face. She blinked, and the swirling remained, on the backs of her eyelids, misty and blue.

It’s in my eyes now, she realized, frightened.

“…Hoc peracto…”

She wanted to tell him to stop. He kept speaking, his voice rising and falling, as the strange blue light filtered her vision.

“…cum fuerit vocatus.”

He gently took her chin and tipped it, indicating that she should look down.

The oval was no longer black. It was swirling with brilliance as an image flared, blurred. Then it steadied, and sharpened.

Izzy looked hard.

There was an ornate bed of gilt swirls and curlicues, dressed with satiny-white sheets. Large candleholders held ivory candles, flickering with light. Lilies hung in profusion from the ceiling.

On the bed lay…

…Izzy. The same hair, the same features. She was her twin. Unlined, unblemished. The woman’s eyes were closed and her hands were folded across her chest like a dead woman.

“This is your mother,” Jean-Marc said.

No. She swallowed down a rush of deep emotion.

“It is. You know it.”

It’s a trick. It’s a lie, she thought.

“Votre mère,” Jean-Marc said. “La Guardienne, Maison des Flammes. Et vous êtes la fille…”

“No, you liar,” she croaked as other words poured into her mind. Ma mère, ma belle mère, ah, je suis ta jeune fille…

She began to sob.

“Bon.” Jean-Marc put down the mirror, and put his muscular arms around her. He cradled her head against his broad chest, but she felt no comfort in his embrace. If anything, she was more frightened, more overwhelmed. She wept harder. Perhaps he sensed that he was making it worse, and released her.

After a long time, she quieted.

“She’s too young,” Izzy managed. “She can’t be my mother.”

“She’s a Gifted,” Jean-Marc said. “You’ll find that you age very slowly, as well. I myself am probably older than you think I am.”

She barely registered what he was saying as she reached around him and picked up the mirror, staring fixedly into it.

“She’s been in a coma for twenty-six years—your entire life. I have found you, and I’m training you. I think she knows that. I think she’s waiting for you to come to her, so she can die. Because she is slipping away. The reports are not good.”

Her scalp prickled. “Wait a minute—”

“I don’t know what will happen if she dies without you there,” he continued. “The Bouvards insist that it’s never happened before. Many believe it is a polite fiction, and nothing more. That a male could inherit the power as easily as a female.”

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. Jean-Marc rose and went to answer it.

“Oui?” he said as he opened it slightly.

Someone spoke to him in French, a male voice, troubled. The sound startled Izzy out of her reverie; she had assumed they were alone.

“Hostie,” Jean-Marc swore.

The two spoke for another few moments and then Jean-Marc shut the door.

Izzy looked from the image of herself in the mirror to him.

Something terrible has happened. She knew it as surely as if he spoke. She saw it in his face. She felt it bone-deep; her blood froze and she shook violently. She was so cold; she was as cold as when she had run from the assassin.

She wanted to cover her ears.

She wanted to be anywhere but here.

He said somberly, “The gun has been fired.” He reached down and took her hand. “Isabelle…”

It’s Big Vince. It’s Pat. Oh, God, no. Please, no.

“Yolanda Sanchez has had a heart attack. She’s dead.”

Her shock was mixed with relief. Fresh tears welled in her eyes as she shook her head.

“No. You’re lying. She was in protective custody.”

He squeezed her hand. “As soon as my operatives detected the discharge of magic, they converged. They clouded minds, got inside—”

She began to cry. Jean-Marc took the mirror from her and held her again. It was all too much; he was the only refuge she had, and she took it. Just as she began to sink against him, he said, “We’ll get him, Isabelle. We’ll get him. But you have to leave the city. It’s just too dangerous for you here.”

“Will you stop it!” she yelled at him, breaking out of his embrace. “Can’t you let up for one damn minute!”

“No,” he replied, “I can’t. Even if it was Vince DeMarco, or Pat Kittrell, I can’t let up.”

He reached for her. She moved out of range.

“To get inside like that…we think he may have had an accomplice, someone working in the holding facility. Or…a magic user. That is far more problematic.”

“I don’t care, I don’t care,” she rasped.

“You should take a shower,” he said. “The residue isn’t helping you. You’re shivering.”

“Stop it!” she screamed at him. She made a fist and shook it at him. “Leave me the hell alone!”

“I wish I could. Believe me.” He touched her cheek and then her forehead. “Let me calm you.”

“Leave me!” she shrieked.

“As you wish,” he said.

And then he left the room.

 

She showered, and it gave her so much relief that she believed him about the magical residue. With steadier hands, she redressed in the clothes she had originally worn. He gave her a dozen white satin bags, six tied with gold thread and six tied with purple.

He said, “The bags with the purple ties are for Pat. The gold ones are for your father.”

Then he drove her back to her house in one of his black vans, saying, “Pat’s on your porch. I’ll let you out here.”

It was barely seven; he was early. She hopped out and hurried toward her house. Pat, in a dark overcoat and a suit, saw her and came down the steps, reaching her and drawing her into his arms. Held her. Looked into her eyes.

“You already heard,” he said. “About Yolanda.”

She melted into his arms and rested her head on his chest.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

She closed her eyes. I don’t ever, ever want you to die.

“I rushed right over. I didn’t want you to hear it on the news.”

Then she opened her eyes and pulled away. “My father wasn’t home?” She felt a burst of panic.

“I saw him at the station house,” Pat said. “He said something about going to your aunt’s for dinner. He figured you were going on a date with me.”

“Why would he think that?” she asked.

“Because I told him you were.” He trailed his fingertips down the side of her face. “Are you still up for it?”

Then and there she made her decision to sleep with him. Now. To protect him and claim him.

She laced her fingers through his and brought his knuckles to her lips.

“Come into my house, Pat.”

They gazed at each other. She put her hand on his chest and felt his thundering heartbeat. He splayed his free hand over the small of her back and drew her against him.

She couldn’t read his mind, but she knew what he was thinking.

He said huskily, “Not in your house.”

And he was right. Jean-Marc could see into the bedroom she would take him to. Anger and embarrassment warred inside her as Pat turned and hailed a cab. Then she determinedly put those feelings aside, reaching with a gloved hand for Pat’s.

She realized this was a better way anyway. This way, she could ward Pat’s home.

With sex magic.

She scooted into the crook of Pat’s arm. He gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head. She savored the foreplay, the anticipation. There was a desperation inside her that she wished she could ignore. She didn’t want her urgency to crowd out her real desire for him.

I’m as calculating as Jean-Marc, she thought. And I don’t want to be.

Maybe Jean-Marc doesn’t want to be, either.

Pressed up against his warmth, she slipped an amulet into the pocket of his overcoat. One down, five to go.

It snowed as they crossed town. She memorized the directions; he lived in Brooklyn, too, but much closer to the bridge.

At one point, her father called on her phone.

“Hey,” he said. “I think I’m going to stay at Clara’s tonight. That okay?”

She hesitated, wondering if he was making it all right for her to sleep elsewhere. But maybe that would be better than his staying at their house, with Cratty at large.

“That’s fine, Big Vince.” Tonight he would dream of Ma…of his wife…again.

Next came Jean-Marc.

“We know your father is staying your aunt’s. We will watch over him.” His voice was neutral.

“Okay,” she said. Her face was hot. What he was telling her was that the coast was clear for her and Pat. It was mortifying to be spied on like this. She wondered if he had a scrying stone aimed at Pat’s bedroom; if guarding him meant that, like her, he had no privacy.

“Good luck,” he said. She had no idea what he meant by that.

“Don’t need it,” she retorted, feeling like she was twelve years old. As soon as she said it, she wanted to take it back. Too late.

“I know,” he replied, disconnecting.

Following Pat’s instructions, the cab pulled over in front of a quaint brownstone. Pat paid the cabbie and they both got out.

He took her hand and keyed into a security door in the pleasant brick foyer. They went up in short order, to the eleventh floor. There was a vase of silk flowers in an alcove; above it a bulletin board with a few business cards for dog walkers and housecleaning services. It was so ordinary, tethering her to the world she had known all her life. The Ungifted world. Pat’s world, too.

He walked her down the hall, to his front door, and put the key in the lock. Smiled and let her in.

She was surprised. Pat’s interior decorating style was Southwestern, but with a warmth that she had not anticipated. Instead of whitewashed end tables and coyotes wearing bandanas and howling at the moon, there were Navajo rugs hanging on the walls, and the furniture was dark and rugged. Terra-cotta vases held dried purple and copper-colored flowers. She thought of the purple ties on the white talismans she had brought for him.

He shut the door and clicked two dead bolts. Then he walked her in with a proprietary air and led her toward the couch.

They took off their coats and he, his suit jacket. He opened a cabinet door and showed her a bottle of red wine. She nodded. When he looked away, she opened her purse and retrieved the second satin bag, hiding it beneath the cushions of his couch.

He poured two glasses and carried them to her. She saw the crotch of his tailored trousers straining against his body, and her senses flared in response.

Taking the glass, she looked up at him, put it to her lips and sipped.

He gazed down at her; he didn’t sit beside her, only looked at her as he took a drink of wine.

She reached out and grasped his hand, using it to pull herself to her feet.

He took her glass and set them both on the table. Then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He sighed against her hair, inhaling her scent.

They had not spoken since they’d walked into his apartment. His thoughts were closed to her, and she was glad. She fell into the silence; she wanted to tell him everything, spill her guts. But she wanted the silence more. Wanted what was happening more.

Be my solace. Be my comfort, she thought, feeling the muscles in his biceps and the hardness of his chest. She wanted to lose herself in him.

As he breathed against her earlobe, she remembered that his wife had died. Died with his child, and he had started roaming. She felt adrift herself, unmoored and without a harbor. She didn’t know what he could do for her, but she knew that she could do something for him. She had the power.

She had the magic.

I’ll be more than your solace, she told him. I will protect you from death.

And then, sharply, it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about rescue or salvation. She wanted him, pure and simple. Jean-Marc was right; the oldest magic in the universe was pure, undistilled desire. And she felt desire for this man, in every cell in her body.

And he knew it.

He held her hand and together they moved from the living room down the hall into his bedroom. There was a large oil painting of a starry desert over his bed; he leaned over and yanked the Indian-print bedspread back hard. His sheets were the color of a desert sunset.

He eased her onto the bed and pulled off her snow boots. She lifted her bottom off the bed so he could snake down her jeans. Then her sweater, over her head.

She lay in her lacy bra and a pair of sheer pale pink thigh-cut underwear. He unhooked the bra. She took off her underwear.

He drank in the sight of her nakedness. She lay still with her legs slightly parted, allowing it. His eyes flared. Excited, her body became moist and swollen. Her nipples hardened.

He was fully clothed when he eased down on top of her, kissing her. She felt his erection and rocked her pelvis gently against the heated sheath; she tugged impatiently at his shirt and he chuckled, stopping her motions, forcing her to lie naked beneath him while he kissed and teased her.

Her breathing grew ragged; she moaned softly. Then Pat let her undress him, and he was exquisite: molded shoulders and sculpted arms; a sprinkling of blond hair across a wide, muscular chest that whorled around his navel and plunged to the narrow V of his torso. And there, his penis, hard and large.

His skin was scented with limes and sunshine. He tasted of wine.

While he put on a condom, there was one moment, one discordant second, when she thought of the danger she might be bringing to him. Then all of that fell away, all the worry and the strange new world and the horror; it was gone the moment Pat entered her, moaning beneath his breath.

“Oh, honey,” he murmured. “Isabella.”

And as they made love, Izzy DeMarco faded into the background. Isabella took center stage; she felt herself blossoming. She was desirable and strong, and this man, who knew nothing about what was happening to her, was her man.

They moved together, and then something incredible transpired: she saw stars in his hair and all around him. Colors shifted and danced along his skin. He saw none of it.

Words tumbled into her mind.

I will you to be safe. To be protected by my magical Gift. Jehanne, stand between Patrick Kittrell and all harm.

Music played, ethereal, astonishing. When his breath caught, she heard a brush of strings. When he moaned, she heard a low, brassy chord. He was light and sound; he was a symphony. Sonorous, sensuous.

His heartbeat pulsed melodies against her ribs.

He heard none of it.

I will you to be shielded from injury. I will bullets to bend, and evildoers to burn.

And when he climaxed…there was a new universe as his release brought on her own. Her body dissolved into brilliant white light; she was energy and transcendence; it was beyond physical, mental; beyond anything she had ever known. She had no words; she knew no words. There was magic in the air. Everywhere.

Then she became herself again, a woman lying in the arms of her lover after they had both climaxed. She floated in his spent embrace.

I will you to live.

I will you to life.

“Are you all right?” he whispered afterward.

In answer, she cradled his head against her neck and drifted into the most sublime sleep of her entire life.

Into paradise.

A fter drifting and drowsing beside Pat, Izzy jerked awake. Her body was singing. She felt colors and patterns shifting deep inside herself, and she had to close her eyes against the tide of sheer sensation.

Her head rested on Pat’s chest; his strong arms were curled around in a loving, protective gesture.

Emotion rose strong in her as she whispered wordlessly, I love you.

She wanted to drift back to sleep, but she didn’t know if staying would help protect him or draw her enemies to him. She couldn’t let him be harmed. She would take that bullet for him any second of any day. But nor did she want to draw the shooter to Pat’s house, to his heart.

Tell me what to do, Jehanne, she prayed.

There was no verbal reply, but her intuition told her that she should leave. Reluctantly untangling herself from him, she gathered up her clothes, tiptoed into his bathroom and dressed. She rubbed toothpaste on her teeth and rinsed with a little swish of mouthwash in a Dixie cup.

When she came back out, he had dressed, too. He had his house keys in his hand and he raised a stern brow as she began to wordlessly protest, indicating that she could leave on her own. She wanted him here, in safe harbor.

He put his hand to her lips. Still not speaking, he laced his fingers through hers and brought them to his lips. She smelled her scent on him. He kissed her and she knew he wanted to make love again.

“Coffee?” he asked. “Tea? Me?”

“I should go,” she said. “I’ll get some at home.”

“Didn’t like what you got here?” he teased.

“Loved it. It was wonderful,” she told him, smiling, feeling a little shy. “But I’m going to turn into a pumpkin if I don’t get home.”

He released her with a heavy sigh. He returned to his nightstand and pulled out his weapon, a SIG-Sauer P-228 just like the one Yolanda had discharged in the Prop room, and a holster that he looped over his shoulder.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, going into the bathroom and shutting the door.

Moving as fast as she could, she slipped the third satin bag underneath his mattress, the fourth in his guest bathroom and the fifth in the vase near the door.

“All set,” he said, joining her in the living room.

As they walked together toward the door, she surreptitiously slid the sixth amulet into his jeans’ pocket with a sensuous motion that made him moan and say, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“We will,” she replied.

They kissed.

He threw back the dead bolts and they went into the hall.

I’ve protected him, she told the darkness. You can’t have him.

Oblivious of her unease, Pat pressed the elevator button. “I loved being inside you,” he murmured. “I want to be inside you right now.”

She was sorely tempted. Her body was ready—moist, warm, eager. But her mind had moved ahead to the concerns of her life—staying alive. Making sure he stayed alive.

The elevator arrived and she maneuvered her way in first. They descended.

She grew more anxious as they walked through the lobby and went outside. It was still dark; New York in winter.

A block down, a lone cab trundled down the street. The On Duty light was on. Pat hailed it and it pulled over.

She jerked.

Jean-Marc was driving it.

He glanced at them without a flicker of recognition. Every part of her was braced for terrible news.

Pat helped Izzy in, then shut the door. He leaned in toward the driver’s window and gave Jean-Marc her address.

Jean-Marc nodded at Pat. Then he drove away.

“Tell me,” she demanded, rapping on the plastic barrier that separated them, and at her touch, it disappeared.

“Your mother is worse.” He spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “We have to leave.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the full force of her denial as she slowly shook her head. She can’t be my mother. I don’t really believe it.

“You know I’m not ready.”

Do you know what just happened to me?

“I know you have to be ready.” He added, “You can call him later. Make up a story. You’re on leave, so you’re taking a break. He’s in love with you. He’ll believe you. He wants you out of here anyway, because of Cratty. It will be a relief to him.”

Without missing a beat, he continued, “Your father is still at your aunt’s. It’s nearly six. What time does he get up?”

He drove the cab down Refugio and turned right onto India. “You can pack a few things,” he said. “And then we—”

At the exact same time, both of them inhaled sharply. The cold, wet velvet sensation slithered from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck.

“Someone’s in there,” Jean-Marc said as he pulled to the side of the street, out of sight of Izzy’s house. “Someone who doesn’t belong there. Do you know who?”

She concentrated. Felt nothing beyond the horrible feeling, narrowly avoiding the probe, the search light at the guard tower. Uneasiness made her queasy. She was sweating, trembling.

“It’s someone with your gun,” he told her.

“Oh, my God! Is my father in there?”

“Non. He’s still at your aunt’s house. He’s safe. I have him surrounded.”

“And this house? Was it surrounded, too?” Her voice was shrill, angry. Scared.

“You’re safe,” he pointed out. He was quiet for a moment. “It’s Cratty. He’s in there with the gun.”

“Does he know we’re out here?” she asked.

“Non.” He gestured to the cab radiophone and spoke into it, in French. Andre, the leader of the gang with the van, responded, also in French; they conversed for a minute or two, then Jean-Marc hung up the phone.

“We’ll wait here,” he said, pushing against the wheel and moving his shoulders, trying to loosen up, she guessed.

“For what?”

“Reinforcements.”

“Are you still guarding my brother?” she asked.

“Oui. No one has approached him. We thought they might try kidnapping your family, but so far, nothing.”

Her heart skipped beats. She stared out the window, and at the back of Jean-Marc’s head. He sat unmoving, unlike her. He would make a good detective, out on a stakeout. What had he told her?

I am a good spy.

They sat in stillness until she thought she would scream. Then a flash of movement outside the cab caught her attention.

Andre and his five homeys were hugging the shadows as they dashed down her street.

“Your neighbors can’t see this,” Jean-Marc told her. “I’ve woven a barrier. The wolf brothers won’t be noticed.”

Wolf brothers?

The woman with the cornrows brought up the rear with a companion in tow, glancing in Izzy’s direction and giving her a thumbs-up.

Her companion was David of the red-gelled hair. His face was in profile to her; she couldn’t read his expression. But he seemed eager to run with the rest, ready for an assault on Izzy’s house.

David? I thought he was in the doghouse. I thought—

Her eyes widened. She knew why David was here.

“He’s here to take the bullet,” she breathed. “If Cratty shoots the Medusa, they’ll use him as a shield.”

Jean-Marc said nothing, only watched in silence. The cadre reached the front of her house, four of them melting into the darkness. David joined Andre, crouching together at the bottom of the steps. The young boy skittered up behind him, his hands on David’s shoulders.

Andre pointed to himself and David, and they began crawling up the steps like crabs. The boy stayed behind, gesturing to the ones who waited in the darkness.

Izzy pushed on the passenger door. It had no handle. “You can’t do that to him. You have to stop it!”

Jean-Marc turned to her. “Isabelle,” he said. “Let this happen. He’s a traitor. He had an accomplice who cast a spell so that the others couldn’t hear you when you called for help. But he heard you.

“He saw you running barefoot in the snow, and he saw you confront Cratty near the apartment building. He didn’t try to help you, then, either. He didn’t move to help you until it was clear you were going to survive.”

“That can’t be,” she protested. “He wouldn’t be so reckless—”

He shook his head. “His masters promised he would be safe. And he believed them.”

“How do you know this?”

“He is Ungifted,” he said simply. “I opened his mind. But I couldn’t learn who his masters are. That remained out of reach.” He sounded supremely frustrated. “Perhaps Andre will have better luck.”

“Out of reach? You messed up his mind? And you…you’re letting it happen…you’re just sitting here…”

He turned and looked at her over his shoulder. His face was hard, stony. “I am not ‘just sitting here.’ I am guarding you.”

Andre had reached the stoop. He waved a hand; then he opened her front door and went in first. David followed close behind.

Swiftly, like animals, the others barreled in after them. The little boy went in last.

She braced herself, clutching her hands together in her lap. She thought she would hear something, feel something.

But she didn’t.

Less than five minutes later, they emerged from her house. All of them…except David.

She began to hyperventilate. Tears slipping down her cheeks, she bit her knuckles as she tried to catch her breath.

Andre walked to the cab as the others piled back into the van. The stout one had his arm around the woman with the cornrows, whose head was lowered.

Jean-Marc pointed at the window and it rolled down of its own accord.

His eyes were narrowed, his jaw clenched, as Andre leaned forward and handed Jean-Marc Izzy’s Medusa. Jean-Marc carefully set it beside himself on the seat.

Next Andre dropped some cartridges into Jean-Marc’s open palm. She couldn’t tell how many there were.

Andre said, “Jean-Marc, I’m sorry. I couldn’t get to Cratty in time. As soon as David saw the gun, he knew. He attacked Cratty while we were transforming and Cratty took the first bullet. Then David turned the gun on himself. It happened too fast.”

Izzy gasped.

Jean-Marc swore. “They had to be working for the same person.”

Andre nodded. “But I don’t think it was the Malchances. It might have been a bokor. Cratty started talking about a sleeping powder and that’s when David rushed him.”

Jean-Marc swore. “A bokor probably means Le Fils.”

Andre looked equally troubled. Scowling, he said, “We took care of David’s body. We left Cratty for Vincenzo DeMarco to find.”

Isabelle covered her mouth with her hands. “What are you talking about?”

“They disposed of David’s body,” Jean-Marc said as if she were hard of hearing.

“Disposed of it? How?”

“We’ll discuss it later. C’est bon,” he continued, patting the back of Andre’s hand. Jean-Marc’s fingertips came away with blood on them.

“What does my house look like?” She pushed on the door. “Let me see my house! You’ve turned it into a crime scene. Possibly made suspects of me and my father!”

“You can’t go in now,” Jean-Marc said. “You need to stay out of there.”

“All we left was Cratty, Guardienne,” Andre said. “No other traces. He had a heart attack.”

“But David—”

“David’s body is gone. By magic,” Jean-Marc told her again. “It is all taken care of.”

Andre continued. “I think he was in there alone because your wards held, Jean-Marc. No one using magic could get through. But my guess is that they’re lurking nearby, to see if he got the job done.”

“Then it’s time,” Jean-Marc announced. “We leave in two hours,” he said to Andre. “Tell the others I’m pleased. Allons-y.”

“Oui, d’accord,” Andre replied. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the window. “Home.”

“Home,” Jean-Marc concurred.

Then Andre loped with a distinctive lupine grace back to the van.

Isabelle watched him go. Watched Jean-Marc point at his bloody fingertips and make the blood disappear. If only it was that easy.

He waved his hands and the cab started up.

“What just happened?” she demanded in a shaky voice. “You have to tell me now. Who are Le Fils? What is a bokor?”

“A bokor is a practitioner of voodoo,” Jean-Marc said. He was still being evasive, and her blood ran cold. He was usually so blunt, so direct. Whatever he wasn’t telling her, it had to be even more extreme than the things he had told her.

“And?”

Jean-Marc hesitated. Then he said, “Le Fils is a name. More formally, Le Fils du Diable. The Son of the Devil.”

“A voodoo practitioner.”

“Non. He’s a king vampire, and he has been terrorizing New Orleans ever since I came here to find you.”

It took her perhaps a full minute to comprehend what he was saying. Then all she could manage to say was a feeble, “What?”

He looked at her in the rearview mirror. His jaw was set, the angles in his face harsh and unrelenting. “Blood is running in the streets. The voodoo drums are rumbling in the swamps. The mayor is threatening to end the alliance between the Ungifted and the Bouvards.

“And if he does that, your enemies will pick you off one by one, until there are no more Bouvards left.”

She processed that. Or tried to. Then she raked her hands through her hair, unable—unwilling—to make rational sense of what he was telling her. “The mayor. Voodoo. Vampires.”

“Mayor Gelineau, of New Orleans, Isabelle.” He looked at her as if that were obvious. “Your family has been working with the state of Louisiana for centuries. The House of the Flames keep all the Gifted and the magical population in check. The vampires, the voodoo bokors, the loupes garoux—”

“Stop.” She was dizzy. As they drove on, she scowled at him. “Were you just not going to mention any of this? That there are vampires? And…and loupes—”

“Loupes garoux. You know what they are. You already knew about the werewolves,” he added. The cab glided down the street without his hands on the wheel. “You looked at the book in the library. You had figured out that Andre and his team are Cajun werewolves.”

“No, I hadn’t!” She reached for the nonexistent door handle. “You let me out, Jean-Marc. I am not going anywhere with you.”

He snapped his fingers. Immediately the car filled with the sound of a ringing phone.

“Palisano.” That was her boss at Prop.

“Lou? Any problem if I go out of town for a few days?” That was her voice. Her disembodied voice! “I know the investigation is under way, but—”

“That’s all right, Iz. There’s so much going on they’re keeping us on lockdown. We’re not going to be taking any property in for a while, looks like. You take your days. How’s your head?”

“It’s a little sore, but I’m pretty good.”

“Lou! That’s not me!” Izzy shouted. She reached for Jean-Marc, to force him to stop.

She hit a barrier as solid as the plastic one he had dissolved. She raised her palm, felt the glow.

“I’ll use it,” she threatened.

“I’m safe from it.” He rapped against the shield. “You and Kittrell aren’t the only ones to get new amulets.”

“You’re kidnapping me!” she shrieked at him, pummeling the barrier with both fists. She kicked at the door. At the back of his seat. “Let me out of here now!”

“Isabelle, look!” he shouted. “Look around you!”

Something hit the other side of the window. Startled, she jerked sideways, screaming. A distorted white face, all angles, hollows and bones, stared back at her. Couched in deep sockets, its eyes were two glowing coals. They sizzled and smoked, the flesh around them bubbling. Its ragged lips were drawn back in the rictus of a smile, revealing long, fanged teeth.

It opened its mouth as if it were trying to bite through the glass. Its face contorted with fury as its fangs smacked the glass. It drew back, trying again.

There was another one on the other side of the car and one smacking against the rear window.

Then a head attached to a body landed hard on the hood, spreading its arms across the windshield as it jackhammered its teeth against the glass. Taloned hands on long arms draped with leathery folds tapped crazily against the glass. It threw itself against the window, jaw working in a frenzy.

Izzy heard nothing but her own screaming. She couldn’t stop.

“Do you still want me to let you out?” Jean-Marc bellowed. “Would you like me to go to New Orleans without you?”

She kept screaming. Her world was coming apart. This was insanity; these things weren’t really here.

“These are vampire minions,” he yelled. “Under the control of Le Fils. They must have been searching for you. They can smell you.”

He glanced at her in the mirror. “They won’t stop until they get you, or they are destroyed.”

With that he moved his hands and began to speak in Latin.

“Audi ergo et time ergo…”

The creature on the hood threw back its head and shrieked. Blue flames erupted along the exterior of the windshield. The minion ignited. Its screams matched Izzy’s own as it went up like a piece of kindling, the blue fire enveloping it.

He shouted more Latin; she could barely hear him. Then her screams mingled with a whooshing sound and walls of blue fire shot up around the cab.

“Call to your patroness!” he shouted.

“Jehanne!” Izzy screamed. “Aidez-moi!”

Shapes writhed in the firestorm. Jean-Marc kept bellowing words; Izzy cried over and over, “Jehanne! Jehanne!”

We’re going to burn to death, just like her. We’re going to roast!

But she felt no heat. The interior of the cab remained cool.

She had no idea how long the flames burned, but eventually they died out. To her astonishment, the cab was undamaged. The magic fire had left it unscathed.

Jean-Marc pulled the car to the curb of an unfamiliar street and opened up the passenger door. He got out and held out his hand. She wouldn’t take it. She sat huddled, amazed that she could think much less move.

He wrapped his fingers around hers and eased her out, pulling her straight into his arms. He placed one hand beneath her right hip and the other beneath her head. He held her the length of his body. She had no will to pull away. She was nearly catatonic.

He murmured, “N’ayez pas peur. Je suis là.”

Warmth moved from his body into hers; calm from his body into hers. She felt his hardness pressing against her abdomen and she realized she, too, was aroused. Which made no sense.

“It’s all right. They’re gone,” he said inside her head.

She leaned against him. Sagged, more like. She tried very hard not to weep.

He was her only anchor. His body pressed against hers, his mind gentling hers.

“And you want me to go to New Orleans? Where blood is running in the streets?”

“I’ll be there, too,” he said. “I won’t desert you.”

“Until your family needs you,” she muttered.

“Look,” he said, lifting her chin and turning her to the side.

They were standing catty-corner across the street from the deli near her aunt Clara’s house. Through the storefront window she saw the bustling patrons, diners at the clutch of tables reading the morning paper and drinking their coffee.

“Your father’s inside,” he said. “He had a ‘conversation’ with you about having breakfast together. I’ve warded the restaurant heavily, and we have backup.”

He gestured behind them; Andre sat behind the wheel of the black van. He gave her a wave, which she did not acknowledge.

“When did you do that?” she asked, peering at the deli. “When did you set him up?”

He didn’t answer. “Go in. Tell him you’re taking off for a couple of days. Tell him whatever you need to, to make him let you go.”

“No,” she whispered. “He’s my father. Please. I can’t leave him. I’m all he has.” Tears spilled down her face.

“You know that is not true. He has a son. A son of his own blood.”

His words cut deeply; even as he cupped her cheek to comfort her. But his dark eyes bored into her as if her were commanding her to face facts: she was not all he had.

“This is your destiny, Daughter of the Flames. I wish I could take it from you,” he said somberly; his voice was deep, laden with urgency.

“Do take it,” she whispered. “Take it from me.”

“I cannot.” He kept his hand on her face, his long fingers warm where they touched her, an unwelcome reminder that this was happening, this was real. “You could leave without saying goodbye. You could disappear. Or you can find a way to talk to him.”

“No,” she blurted.

Then he pressed the length of his body against hers again, her body that Pat had claimed so wondrously, and murmured to her in Latin. She fought for a moment and then, as a sense of calm began to infuse her, she fought harder.

“Shh, Guardienne,” he whispered, more like a lover than a mentor. “Let me make it easy for you. It’s difficult enough, non?”

She felt herself succumb. She felt warm and a little dizzy. She smelled oranges. She smelled Jean-Marc. Her heart skipped a beat; her stomach twisted.

She said, “I’m coming back here. To New York.”

“Oui,” he agreed. “So, make it possible to do so. Now.”

They communed a moment longer, and then she turned on her heel and went into the restaurant. The smells of coffee, fresh pastries and wet wool pulled her into the moment. The hubbub. What was in here was real. Jean-Marc and the vampire minions and the death of David…

They’re real, too. She didn’t want to accept that, but it was true.

The deli had six hunter-green-topped tables. Seated at the one furthest from the door, her father was dressed for work in his blues, a white coffee cup in his fist; and he waved her over to the table where he sat.

She threaded her way through the crowd and pulled out the chair across from him. He leaned across the table and kissed her cheek as she sat down. “Iz,” he said. His voice was gentle. “Big doings, eh?”

She blinked at him, adrift. She had no idea which of the many big doings of late he was referring to.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of the city for a few days,” he said. “Wish I could, too. I just hope we find Cratty while you’re gone.” He clenched his teeth. “He’s probably already left the city. Good riddance.”

Izzy knew that there was nothing worse in Big Vince’s book than a dirty cop.

“Ah, well, whatcha gonna do,” he muttered. Then he offered her his coffee. “Just got it,” he said. “I’ll get another.”

“Just had some.” She thought of Cratty lying dead in their house and knew she had to be careful not to create any more complications. “At Pat’s,” she added.

“Ah.” Her father’s cheeks reddened. “Okay.”

She thought to go on about that, say something to ease the awkwardness, when he rushed on. “I need…I had a talk with your aunt, last night, baby. She said it was time for me to talk to you about…things.”

“Things.” She held her breath. My adoption?

He stared down at his coffee cup, hands clenched atop the place mat. Then he gazed up at Izzy through his lashes. There were lines in his face; he looked older than he was.

“About your ma.”

“Oh.” Jean-Marc had fed him some lovely dream, and he must have talked to her aunt about it. She didn’t want to hear the pretty illusion. She felt ashamed, even though she had done nothing to cause it.

He exhaled. “Your ma,” he said softly as he picked up the cup and set it down, scrutinizing the ring of condensation on the Formica tabletop. “Your ma. Oh, Iz, she was so sick. The doctors tried all kinds of medicines, shots, pills…they just made it worse.” He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I remember.”

He made another ring.

“One night, when you were little, she just couldn’t take it anymore, know what I mean? So she…”

Her voice hitched. He set the cup down. And Izzy understood that this was not about lovely dreams and pretty illusions.

“Daddy, it’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

“She got my gun…” His voice cracked. He shut his eyes tight and pulled his head in toward his chest. His fists balled. “My gun,” he said again. He didn’t look at her.

“And she shot herself.”

Izzy jerked back her head as if he had slapped her hard across the face.

“No,” Izzy whispered.

A gun went off.

A tear rolled down his cheek. He still didn’t look at her. “It hit all kinds of organs…perforated her bowel…”

A gun went off.

Izzy reeled. She thought she was going to be sick. She went completely numb. Her face was icy.

“She never got over it,” he concluded. His head was still down.

He blames himself, she realized.

The wounded part of her, the little girl who needed a mother, blamed him, too.

And then she felt…something…something warm…

Jean-Marc had entered the restaurant. He moved into her direct field of vision and stared hard at her. She felt his strength.

Je suis là, she heard inside her head. Pas de peur. Have no fear.

I am afraid, she told him. I’m terrified.

No need.

More strength infused her, along with a kind of detached calm, as if she were standing beside Jean-Marc, watching herself. It was like a drug. It was magic.

“Daddy,” she said, “you couldn’t have done anything.”

“After I called 9-1-1, I checked on you,” her father continued. He began to weep. “You didn’t wake up. Gino started crying. But you slept through the whole thing.”

But she had heard it. And her subconscious had tried for years to make sense of it.

“Afterward.” He slumped, wiping his chin with his hand. “Oh, Madonna, she was just out of surgery. She was still in the hospital. I went nuts. I told her she was the worst, most selfish mother in the world.”

Izzy snaked her hand across the table and tightly clasped his hand.

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know this.

His mouth stretched across his face, a contortion, an agony. “I said that we were Catholics. Suicide is a mortal sin. Was she going to raise her children from hell?”

She squeezed harder. Her breath was stuck in her chest. And then…more calm.

Jean-Marc was staring hard at her over Big Vince’s shoulder. She stared at him as an image flashed across her mind:

A young woman in a long white gown tied to a stake. The flames are crackling. A priest raises a staff with a crucifix atop it, and she focuses on that as she is consumed…

She stared at Jean-Marc and focused on what Big Vince was saying.

“So me almost taking a bullet…and her warning me. I’m hoping it means that she forgives me for saying those things. I was just so afraid she’d try again.”

Izzy tried to clear her throat. Jean-Marc was staring hard at her, his lips moving, weaving magic. Where had the magic been back when the DeMarcos had needed it?

“She’s an angel now,” Big Vince said. “The angels understand. And they forgive.”

Jean-Marc raised his left arm and tapped on his watch. They were out of time.

She held her father’s hand, silently said, Am I your child? Tell me, Big Vince. Tell me whose child I am.

There was nothing.

Then Big Vince said, “So. There it is. I’m glad I finally told you, baby.”

But she could see that telling her had cost him. He looked wan and humiliated. She assumed he had let Aunt Clara pressure him into revealing his terrible secret. It was the wrong time to ask him to reveal another, so she closed the lid on her desperate need to discuss her adoption before she parted from him. It was the right thing to do.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “I understand. Thanks for telling me.”

“It’s a weight lifted,” he said, obviously unaware that he had transferred his burden to her. “I dreamed of her, and she told me it was all right to tell you.” His face glowed. “Baby, she loves us so much.”

Izzy couldn’t swallow around the lump in her throat. She began to falter; Jean-Marc’s gaze gave her purchase, kept her grounded.

Big Vince added almost jovially, “I’m glad you’re going on a little break. Florida. Nice and sunny. Do you good, getting out of here. Pat…?”

“No,” she said. When had Jean-Marc told him all this, convinced him she was going to Florida? “I’m going alone.”

He fished in his pants’ pocket. “Here. This is for traveling mercies.”

He handed her a gold St. Christopher’s medal about the size of a dime.

She held the medal tightly as anxiety prickled through her. Left to his own devices, her father would never be so sanguine about her suddenly leaving town like this. Jean-Marc was manipulating him. Just as he had manipulated her.

Jean-Marc took a step toward them; it was her cue to leave. Moving more smoothly than she would have thought possible, given the circumstances, she pushed back her chair and got to her feet.

“Call me as soon as you land. Tell me all about it.” He nodded at her. “Get warm. This damn world is so cold.”

“I will.”

She turned to go, then stopped and turned back around. When would she see him again? When, really?

He knit his brows. “Was it right, to tell you? About Ma?”

“It was right,” she said. She didn’t know what possessed her—or maybe she did—as she said, “Ma speaks to me in my dreams, too, Daddy.”

“It’s a miracle,” he said, his voice hushed with awe.

“Yes.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek, smooth from his morning shave. She wanted to be his little girl again. She had not been a little girl since the night he had asked her to be brave, back when she was seven.

“Hey, you’ll be back soon,” he said confidently.

“Yes.” She stumbled out of the restaurant, disoriented and unsteady. Jean-Marc trailed behind her; he caught up with her outside and they crossed the street side by side, but not too close. She wondered if her father was watching.

As they walked behind Andre’s van, she whirled on Jean-Marc and said, “You lied to him.”

“Yes.” He pointed at the van door and it slid open. “Time to go.”

She shook her head. “I have no clothes. No toothbrush—”

“Of course you do.”

They walked past the van. There was a gray Corolla double-parked beside the cab. Jean-Marc escorted her to the passenger’s side and got behind the wheel.

He said, “We’re on the run now, Isabelle.”

“I’m Izzy,” she said, hugging herself. Her hands shook.

They pulled into traffic.

The van followed.

Her mother had attempted suicide. The guns in her dreams, her fear of them…that jerk Dr. Sonnenfeld had been right all along. Issues.

She thought about the vampire minions and the blue fire. And David. All the woo-woo insanity.

About Pat.

She rubbed her head; it was pounding. Distanced and wary, she observed other cars and road signs, losing track, then snapping back into awareness as they made a right into a densely forested area. A landing strip stretched in front of them and, at the end of it, a small white jet that bore no markings of any kind.

“That jet belongs to you,” he said.

“Not to me personally,” she replied, taken aback.

“To your mother. To the Guardienne.”

That gave her pause. It hadn’t dawned on her that her mother would be…rich.

He opened her car door and she climbed out, mulling over the notion of being the daughter of a millionaire.

“Look,” he said, gesturing behind her. She turned around and gasped.

At least thirty cars sat fanned behind the cab. People got out of them—men and women—to stand silently, gazing at her. There were at least a hundred, maybe more. The only ones she recognized were Andre and the others from the van.

Except for one other person, who stood about twenty feet away.

Captain Clancy.

The NYPD officer, who was dressed for work in a black pantsuit, raised a hand and waved at Izzy.

Jean-Marc nodded at the captain as he said to Izzy, “She’ll smooth things over at the precinct. No bridges burned.”

Izzy waved back at the captain. “How? When?”

“I approached her last night,” he said. “She had heard of us, but not of you specifically. I helped her ward the precinct in return for her help.”

Jean-Marc beckoned Captain Clancy forward. She walked toward them, then inclined her head respectfully as she drew near.

“I’m not sure what to call you,” the woman said to Izzy. “But I want you to know that I’ll look after your father while you’re gone.”

Izzy took a breath. She said, “Pat Kittrell, too.”

“Oh?” Captain Clancy smiled faintly. “All right. I will.” She looked from her to Jean-Marc and back again, as if taking the measure of their relationship.

The police captain took a few steps back. Some of the assembled crowd knelt on one knee. Others bowed or lowered their heads. There was a scattering of applause and one brave soul who bellowed, “Yo!”

“It’s time to go,” Jean-Marc said.

Together they walked toward the jet.

A s Izzy and Jean-Marc crossed to the aircraft, the sky shifted from night to predawn. When the first hints of color tinted the blackness, Jean-Marc visibly relaxed.

“No chance of vampires,” he said.

“Oh. That part’s true? They can’t go out in the sunlight?”

When he nodded as if he couldn’t quite believe that she hadn’t known that information from birth, she added savagely, “Because the part about them sticking to car windows and trying to eat through them? Missed that on ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’”

He huffed. She felt a surge of anger so intense that she had to consciously stop herself from hitting him. His empathy level certainly came and went. One moment he was all hugs and encouragement, the next…pretty much a bastard.

A man dressed in a long black coat emerged from the door of the jet. Izzy sucked in her breath. Assassin?

“It’s all right,” Jean Marc said. “He’s your Bouvard aide-de-camp. His name is Michel. For the record, he detests me.”

“How does he feel about me?” she asked, ticking her glance from the man to Jean-Marc.

“I’m not sure. You’re probably better news than I am. Unless the fact that I’m your escort taints you,” he reminded her somberly. “We haven’t even begun to discuss all the factions and intrigues you will have to deal with.”

“Madame de Bouvard, Grâce a Jehanne that you’ve been found at last,” Michel gushed as he descended the stairs. With a dramatic flourish, he dropped to his knee and lowered his head. “I can’t tell you how many runes I’ve cast, watching for this day.”

Casting runes. Vampires.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Monsieur de Devereaux,” he said icily as he rose, not even bothering to look at Jean-Marc. He was wearing a little pin of white flames on his lapel.

“Monsieur de Bouvard,” Jean-Marc replied, and it took Izzy by surprise. Were all the de Bouvards named de Bouvard? It hadn’t even occurred to her that that might be the case.

“I am Michel,” he said to her. “I’m certain Monsieur de Devereaux has already told you that.” He went on, walking shoulder to shoulder with her. “I’ve brought you dossiers on all the most influential members of the House of the Flames. There’s to be an emergency meeting as soon as we land.”

“No meeting,” Jean-Marc cut in. “Madame is already exhausted. We’ll see what is to be done once we arrive.”

Michel frowned. “They are going to want to see her. If the power transfer occurs soon—”

“They can wait.”

Michel pursed his lips. “With all due respect, Monsieur de Devereaux, I know my family better than you. The tension at the maison is nearly unbearable. They’ve heard that she’s coming, and they know the Guardienne is…fading.”

“We were attacked on our way over here,” Jean-Marc said. “By minions of Le Fils. Madame hadn’t encountered vampires before and—”

“What?” Michel looked incredulous.

“One forgets,” Jean-Marc said slowly, “that Madame has lived among the Ungifted all her life. Like all of us, vampires are expressly forbidden in New York.”

“And yet, here you are,” Michel said. His voice dripped with hostility.

“Here I am, performing my job as Regent, to locate and deliver your next Guardienne. Now, is the plane clear?”

Stiff-lipped, Michel nodded. “We’ve warded and rewarded it. I burned some white sage about a minute ago. I’ll go in first. As a precaution.”

As Michel reentered the plane, Jean-Marc muttered, “If the plane is clear, why does he need to take a precaution?”

She had no answer. But she had a question of her own. “If he knows I’m not married, why does he call me madame?”

“It’s a sign of respect,” he said. “It’s that case in many languages.”

She took a breath. “Have you had any more word about Marianne? May I see your mirror?”

“Most of my possessions are in the cargo hold,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take you to your home to pack. I did direct Sauvage to get you some clothes at the safe house. The plane was probably being loaded about the same time you and I were outside your house.”

She thought about her French-poodle bathrobe and her black skirt. I’ll be back soon, she reminded herself…but she knew she wasn’t at all sure of that. If Marianne de Bouvard des Flammes really did die, and passed on her powers to Izzy, could she simply return to New York? It was too much to wrap her head around. So were vampire attacks and guns that caused heart attacks.

And Cajun werewolves and sacrificial victims with red-gelled hair.

As her boots clanged on the metal stairs, she glanced back over the crowd watching her every move. On impulse, she waved.

A cheer rose up. Most of them waved back.

“I feel like a rock star,” she drawled.

Jean-Marc looked even angrier. He said, “Your departure is a covert operation.”

Whoops. Not anymore.

Then she stepped into the plane. The interior was white on white—ivory walls and carpet, overstuffed white leather seats positioned with plenty of room all around them, each with an island holding a DVD player, screen and a place for refreshments. The de Bouvard signature flames logo was stamped in gold on cushion covers and on the doors of the cockpit.

“Oh, hi, Guardienne!” Sauvage sang out, bounding down the spacious aisle. She wore a black bolero jacket dotted with crimson satin roses over her bustier, and she had wound her hair into two little pom-pom ponytails that stuck out like antennae on either side of her head.

Her white face was wreathed in a huge smile, as if Izzy were her long-lost sister. Against her chest, she cradled a bulging black backpack with a red skull on it. She began rooting around inside it, then brightened and pulled out a necklace of silver links and pink stones, quite lovely in its craftsmanship.

“I made this for you. It’s rose quartz,” Sauvage announced. “It’s good for…well, I’m not sure, actually. I read it in one of your books, but I forgot.” She looked a little embarrassed.

“It’s for healing,” Jean-Marc said. He picked it up from Sauvage’s hands and held it up, admiring it. “C’est très jolie, Sauvage.” He turned to Izzy. “It will help protect you.”

She looked down at her simple gold crucifix. Then she turned so that Jean-Marc could put the necklace on for her.

His fingers grazed the nape of her neck and ripples of electricity fanned up her neck and across her shoulders. She wondered if he felt it, too; she ignored it as best she could by staring down at the stones. Perhaps the sensation was emanating from them.

“Oh, it looks good,” Sauvage said happily.

“It was very sweet of you,” Izzy said, smiling at her.

Blushing, Sauvage wheeled around. “Meet Ruthven!” She gestured at a boy of about eighteen who was sitting in one of the seats. His black hair was shot through with electric-blue dye, and he wore white makeup and eyeliner like Sauvage. He had on a T-shirt, a black vest and black leather pants.

“Um, hello, Your Majesty,” he said, half rising and giving Izzy a wave.

Sauvage beamed at him. “I hope this is okay. Ruthven wants to help the cause. Michel said it was okay.”

Michel cocked his head. “I said that it would be all right if it was all right with Madame.”

Izzy looked to Jean-Marc, who shrugged with his trademark French insouciance.

“Oh, yay!” Sauvage cried. She galloped over to Ruthven. “You’re in, baby!”

Jean-Marc murmured to Izzy, “You can be very nice when you want to be.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Me?” she sputtered. He grinned at her and she wondered if he was teasing her. Was he even capable of humor?

The pilot and copilot introduced themselves, and Jean-Marc conferred with a man who turned out to be a steward. Izzy realized that she hadn’t eaten all day and she was ravenous.

After they took off, Michel perched across the aisle from Izzy.

“Let’s go through those dossiers,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Sure,” she said, fatigued and edgy, but game to do her best.

In short order, he showed her half a dozen folders of women and men who looked like her—dark eyes, crazed hair. An older woman’s hair was gray.

“This is Mirielle,” he announced. “She’s probably your oldest relative. She’s a hundred and twenty-nine.” Before she could react, he opened another folder.

“This is Mayor Gelineau. Ungifted. Not in the Family. He has twin daughters named Desta and Monique. The daughters are goths who own an occult bookshop in the French Quarter. It’s been closed since Le Fils stepped up his rampage.” He looked over at Jean-Marc. “I assume you’ve been keeping up to date on that.”

Jean-Marc stared impassively at Michel. The other man flushed and said, “Gelineau’s worried. The standard protocols are no longer working. The media have gotten wind of the increase in ‘criminal activity—’” he made air quotes “—and they’re demanding answers.”

Jean-Marc cleared his throat. “The ‘standard protocols’ are the procedures the law-enforcement agencies use to cover up anything the Ungifted would consider out of the ordinary—vampirism, magic use, even voodoo.”

“Not all voodoo,” Michel interrupted.

Jean-Marc rolled his eyes. “Voodoo is a touchy subject in New Orleans. Some bokors insist it’s a religion. Others argue that they are Gifted and should be admitted into the Grand Covenate.”

“Because they’ve been denied membership, they tend to ally themselves to whomever will give them the most power,” Michel added.

“Non. They ally themselves to whomever will give them the most power because they are not a united house,” Jean-Marc argued, sounding testy. “They’re a ragtag bunch of déclassé—”

“This is a conversation for another time,” Izzy said. She turned to Michel. “Tell me about Le Fils.”

“It’s been getting worse and worse.” Michel said. “Gelineau is furious. Broussand—that’s the Superintendent of Police—is pressuring him to consider severing the Politesse.”

“Where does Jackson stand on that?” Jean-Marc queried him. He said to Izzy, “That’s the governor.”

She said, “What’s the Politesse?”

“That’s the agreement to allow Gifted to live in your territory without persecution,” Jean-Marc told her. “It was signed in 1753.”

“Madame knows what her territory is?” Michel asked.

She shook her head. He looked shocked.

“The Bouvard family controls all of the American South and parts of the west,” Michel explained.

Izzy’s mouth dropped open. “Say that again?”

He looked at Jean-Marc as if to ask, What have you told her?

She couldn’t comprehend what Michel had just revealed. She hadn’t even realized that the Bouvards controlled all of New Orleans.

Michel cleared his throat. He said to Jean-Marc, “May I speak to you privately?”

Maybe they’ll agree I’m unqualified, Izzy hoped, crossing her fingers.

They got up and walked to the back of the plane. While they muttered together, turbulence buffeted the jet. The sky outside was blue and bright; it was the first time Izzy had seen a sunny day since before Halloween.

Jean-Marc returned to his seat beside her. As if he’d been waiting, the steward brought them both plates of fragrant steak and French fries and glasses of wine.

“So, you two decided to go to the next girl on the list?” she asked Jean-Marc as she picked up her silverware.

Jean-Marc didn’t crack a smile. He said, “We’ve agreed that only the most senior members of your family—those who are traditionalists, and believe that you must inherit your mother’s Gift—should be informed of your…status.”

“As someone who has no clue.”

“Oui.”

“You’re going to BS the others.”

“Oui.”

“Like you BS’ed me.”

His wineglass was halfway to his mouth. It stayed there as he said, “I never lied to you.”

Michel returned. Jean-Marc looked over at his stack of dossiers and said, “Where’s my cousin, Alain?”

“I didn’t bring any Devereaux folders with me,” Michel said crisply. “Since you will be handing power over to Madame de Bouvard, I am concentrating on her people.”

“Jean-Marc is my Regent,” she said, testing the waters a little.

Michel folded his hands one on top of the other and sniffed. “I don’t suppose he mentioned the fact that nearly twenty-three percent of de Bouvards have left the Family since Jean-Marc assumed power three years ago?”

Jean-Marc murmured to Izzy, “I’ve only been serving as Regent for three years. Before that, it was Mirielle’s daughter. She died in office.”

“Elise was murdered,” Michel said flatly.

“It was never proven,” Jean-Marc replied.

“And there was that other girl,” Michel began.

“Look,” Izzy interrupted, “could you two stop the pissing contest? I only just found out that there are Gifted and Ungifted. I don’t even want to be here.”

Michel refolded his hands. He was unbelievably prissy. “It would be wise not to advertise that fact after we land. There are many factions who would welcome the chance to assassinate you and put their own choice forward to receive Le Baiser du Feu from the Guardienne.”

Jean-Marc turned to Izzy. “That means—”

“‘The Kiss of Fire,’” Izzy translated, suddenly hooking into the French again.

“There is also the matter of your father,” Michel continued. He said to Jean-Marc, “You have told her that we don’t know who he is?”

“Oui.”

Michel checked his watch. “Your existence was announced approximately three hours ago. We’ve already had six men come forward and insist that they’re your father. They’ve offered to provide samples.”

“Can’t I just resign?” she asked Jean-Marc.

Jean-Marc said to Michel, “I explained to her that since the Guardianship is hereditary, that’s probably not an option.”

“Definitely. So, we’re back to memorizing names and faces,” Michel insisted.

They worked for another hour or so. Jean-Marc grew increasingly agitated, peering out the window, visiting the cockpit, and speaking to several men and women in black business suits, who turned out to be security.

Then he said, “It would be good to change your clothes now. There’s a private room for you, with a shower. You go first and then I’ll take mine.”

“A…shower,” she deadpanned. “Changing my clothes.”

He nodded. “There is a white gown for you.”

“And for you?”

He shrugged like a Frenchman. “A tux.”

“You’re serious.”

“This is your debut with your family. They will be dressed, as well,” he said.

She blew a ringlet off her forehead. She couldn’t deny that a shower sounded heavenly. And it would be nice to have something fresh to wear.

He led her to a small room furnished with a bed and an altar, set up much the same as the one back in New York: a statue of Joan of Arc, a sort of human-shaped gray figure, lilies and candles. Jean-Marc genuflected before it. She did not.

He opened a door and showed her a tiny bathroom decorated with marble tiles, marble sinks and gold fixtures. There were fluffy white towels embroidered with the flames logo.

Beside the bathroom, he pointed to a wooden panel flush with the wall; as it slid open, he said, “This is for you.”

She gaped at a long white dress with a boat neck and long sleeves cut on the diagonal and ending in wisp bits of cloth-like scarves. Her fingertips brushed the white-on-white embroidered flames on the bodice. The fabric was creamy silk.

As she stared at it, Jean-Marc raised the hem to reveal white high heels.

Then he hesitated and pulled from his left ring finger a heavy gold signet ring. He examined it, then showed it to Izzy. “This is the day-to-day symbol of authority in the House of Flames. It was taken off your mother’s finger and given to the first Regent. It’s been passed from Regent to Regent since then. I think I should continue to wear it for the time being.”

“Works for me,” she said.

He nodded and put it back on his finger. “I’ll leave you to your shower.”

After he left, she stepped into the stall and cranked up the hot water. It was sheer pleasure; she wanted to melt. When she was finished, she toweled off and stepped into the dress. There was a shelf bra. There were no underpants, just a pair of panty hose. She slipped them on and put on the shoes, then her crucifix and Sauvage’s rose quartz necklace.

She pushed on what looked to be another sliding panel and discovered a full-length mirror. Her dark eyes and hair were a stark contrast to the whiteness of her outfit and her New-York-in-winter pallor. She couldn’t deny the drama of her appearance—and the fact that it was the most feminine she had ever felt in her entire life.

Jean-Marc rapped on the door as if he knew she was finished. When she opened it, his eyes flared and his lips parted. He murmured, “Mais tu es magnifique, Isabelle.”

She flushed under his scrutiny. Then she said, “Your turn.”

He nodded and she left him in the room. As she walked back down the aisle of the compartment, Sauvage blurted, “You look like a princess!”

I look like I’m about to be burned at the stake, Izzy thought. But she thanked Sauvage and took her seat.

Michel was on her within seconds with more dossiers. After complimenting her on her appearance, he flipped open the topmost one and they got back to work.

“You’re doing well,” he said after they’d gone through several files. “Now, here’s your cousin, Jacques—”

But the rest of his words were lost as Izzy looked up and saw Jean-Marc in his tux. It was impossible not to stare at him. His dark hair glistened with shower mist. His angular face and square jaw were clean-shaven. The tux fit him perfectly, stretching across broad shoulders and narrow hips. His white shirt was elegant; his studs were simple gold.

Jean-Marc moved with fluid grace as he stepped around Michel and took his seat beside Izzy. He pressed the button for the steward and said, “Champagne.”

The steward brought three flutes—one for Michel—and Jean-Marc clinked his against Izzy’s.

“To a glorious reign,” he said. “To long life. And a daughter.”

“Whoa.” She froze, her glass aloft. Was he referring to her lovemaking session with Pat? Did he think she might be pregnant? “Aren’t you rushing things?”

“Not at all,” he replied evenly. Then he drank. “Good champagne. We Devereaux have vineyards in the Medoc.”

“Of course you do,” she said.

Then she socked it back.

It seemed as if only a couple of minutes had passed when Sauvage cried out, “Ruthie! We’re landing!”

Izzy leaned forward, looking past Jean-Marc, to see an airstrip that ran like an artery through the heart of a black, clotted forest. She saw nothing but trees and darkness.

She thought of Pat and his sunny home, and missed him with an ache that was real and deep and painful.

The pilot landed the plane easily and well; the security people exited first, forming a protective circle around the ramp that had been pushed up to the door. Jean-Marc descended the stairway, gesturing for Izzy to stay behind him while he took in the lay of the land.

It was brisk, autumnal weather, not the bone-chilling cold of New York. Despite the fact that it was daytime, the vista was dark and forbidding. Lush trees rustled in a cold wind. Huge swags of Spanish moss hung from their limbs; the air smelled rotten.

Three sleek, low-slung limousines were idling beside the jet. Three limo drivers stepped from their vehicles and bowed on one knee.

Jean-Marc escorted Izzy toward the middle limo while Sauvage trailed behind with Ruthven, their heads pressed together, giggling in high spirits, as if this were a vacation. At the very least, it was a free trip to Goth Central. The security detail and the airline crew took the other two limos.

Izzy and Jean-Marc sat in the middle of the seat at the rear. Sauvage and Ruthven plopped down beside a DVD player. Ruthven reached out to press a button; Sauvage smacked his hand.

Michel sat up front with the driver, pulling a revolver from his jacket and laying it across his lap. She wondered if Jean-Marc had her Medusa, and thought about asking him for it. Then thought better of it.

Jean-Marc had words—in French—with the driver, then leaned back against the leather seat. He looked weary. There were lines around his mouth that she hadn’t noticed before. She wondered how old he really was.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Jean-Marc warily glancing through the tinted windows.

“First order of business,” Jean-Marc began. “To go to your mother, of course.”

She tensed. “My…”

“She’s on life support inside the mansion. I thought I told you that.”

“No,” she said evenly. “You didn’t.”

Her head began to pound. She rubbed her temples and cricked her neck.

“Allow me,” he said.

He touched her forehead, and his warmth seeped into her skull.

Jean-Marc’s cell phone went off. He answered it, saying, “Oui, bien. Merci.” He clicked off and looked at Izzy. “So far, so good.”

“That’s comforting.”

They drove past silvery freshets of water dotted with cattails and large ferns. Drooping trees rose from the water, the heavy branches plunging back into the swamps. Birds took off in scattershot.

“It’s so cool,” Sauvage murmured.

They went deeper into the darkness. Izzy called her father on her cell phone and reported in.

“Florida’s so nice,” she said, wincing. Why hadn’t Jean-Marc told him she was going to New Orleans?

“Iz, I have to tell you something. John Cratty was found in our house. Dead.”

She closed her eyes and tried to sound surprised. “What? How?”

“Heart attack. Like that girl, Yolanda. Isn’t that just nuts? They’re thinking drugs. They were in on it together, so maybe they sampled the same bad batch. No autopsy results yet. Pat said he’d let me know. I’m staying at Clara’s since our home is a crime scene.”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“It wasn’t fun finding him. Captain Clancy came down to the briefing room, asked if I was okay.”

“Do you think she’ll go down?” Izzy asked, grateful that the captain had kept her word to watch over her father.

“I hate to say it, but yeah, I do. They’ll scapegoat her. It’s a shame, but it’s the Job, you know?”

“I was wrong. You’re not a throwback,” she murmured, moved by his compassion for his female commanding officer.

“Maybe not. But I’m still glad you’re out of here. Now, listen, I have the number for your hotel. You just relax and have some fun.”

She shut her eyes. Jean-Marc had explained that it was a simple matter to forward her calls from the fake hotel number to the mansion.

“Okay,” she said.

They hung up, and next she called Gino.

“Jeez, Iz, did you hear about the dead cop in our house?”

“It’s so weird, Gino.”

“You dated him, didn’t you?”

“Only a couple of times.”

“I’m thinking you should become a nun.”

She made a face, even though he couldn’t see her. “You and me both.”

“I can’t become a nun. Big Vince says you stayed out all night with some guy.”

“Mea maxima culpa. Are you shocked?”

“Not about that. It goes with the territory. You’re young and filled with sin. But what does shock me is that Big Vince is in raptures about some bond he is having with Ma.”

“Well, we are Catholics,” she said. “We’re supposed to believe in stuff like that or the whole system is shot to hell.”

“He was never like this until I started seminary. Don’t say hell so much.”

“Yes, his embracing his faith is your fault. Tell your father superior you want extra credit.”

“There’s a thought. Listen, I gotta go. It’s time to pray.”

“It’s always time to pray with you people.”

“Yeah, well,” he said. “Whatcha gonna do. Love you, Iz.”

“Gino, wait,” she said in a rush. “Gino…” She took a breath. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“Am I…” She decided to come straight out with it. “Did our parents adopt me?” There. It was out. Jean-Marc was staring at her intently. Sauvage stopped chattering and fell silent.

Gino said, “What?”

Izzy was not going to back down. “I need to know. Has anyone ever said anything to you?”

There was silence on the other end. She tried to translate it.

Then Gino said, “Oh, my God. Aunt Clara said something just the other day. About how strange it was that you were following in Dad’s footsteps, much more so than me, his ‘real son’ she said. I thought it was weird. But I didn’t think that it meant you were adopted. Who told you that? That’s just…that can’t be.”

“Oh,” she said faintly, feeling dizzy. Jean-Marc caught her gaze, held it. Steadied her.

“Did you talk to Big Vince about it?” Gino asked her.

She almost said, I never found the right time. But that was a dodge. She hadn’t asked because she hadn’t wanted to know.

“When you get back from your vacation, maybe we three should have a sit-down,” Gino suggested.

“He wants to see Father Raymond,” Izzy told him, trying to keep her voice steady. “To talk about Ma. That would be a good time.”

“Pffft. That guy has no social skills. Better we should keep it in the family. And it is our family, Iz, no matter how it got that way.” His voice was gentle and concerned. Her throat closed up.

“Iz?” he said. “You still there?”

“Yeah. I’m…okay,” she assured him. “You go on to prayer class.”

“I love you,” he replied. “You’re my sister, Iz. You are.”

“Yeah. Same here. I’m stuck with you, too, Gino.” It was difficult to speak.

After she hung up, Jean-Marc tentatively extended his hand, as if to comfort her. She resolutely ignored him and dialed Pat.

“Hey.” Her voice was still tight; she discreetly cleared her throat.

“Iz. You just…took off.”

“I’m sorry. I just…things…”

“Are you sorry?” he asked, and she realized he was referring to their lovemaking.

“Not at all,” she promised. “I’ll…I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You…” He took a breath. “What’s wrong, Iz?”

She ticked her gaze to Jean-Marc, who was watching her closely. Perhaps too closely. A frisson of anxiety trilled up her spine. Had she walked into some kind of trap? Was she his prisoner?

“Is it John Cratty?” he asked.

She answered a question with another question. “Was it really a heart attack?”

“Yes. Like Yolanda’s.” He paused. “I found this little white bag under my mattress.”

“Oh.” She flushed. “Ah.”

“Good-luck charm?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, it worked. I got lucky.”

She loved how bright he was, how quick. “Keep rolling the dice,” she said. “Your number’s sure to come up again.”

“That won’t be everything that comes up.”

She smiled wanly, missing him, wanting to come clean, wanting to be with him.

“When are you coming home?” he asked.

“Soon. You won’t have time to miss me.”

“Too late for that,” Pat replied.

Pensively she hung up. Sauvage leaned forward, goggle-eyed, and said, “Was that your boyfriend?”

Izzy avoided Jean-Marc’s gaze as she said, “Yes.”

“That’s nice.” Sauvage snuggled against Ruthven, who clasped her upper thigh with a lustful grimace. “Having a boyfriend is cool.”

After about an hour, the car rolled through an alley of perhaps fifty live oaks on each side of the road, up to an exquisite three-storied, Southern-style mansion. The roof was pointed and there were carvings in the triangular frieze of stone.

Seven enormous columns fronted the house, which was perched on a sweep of steps, bisected by a large, flowing fountain.

Wrought-iron balconies encircled the middle and top floors. They were crowded with dozens of people waving and applauding as the limo drove toward them. Many of them were holding lilies; trellises of small white flowers ringed the ground floor of the mansion.

“Everyone has gathered to greet you,” Jean-Marc said. “Not all of them are happy that you’re here. We have a lot of security. You’ll be heavily protected.”

“Okay, so why are they still around if they don’t like her?” Sauvage piped up. “Why don’t you just boot them?”

“Jesse, they’re magic users,” Ruthven said. “You don’t want to piss people like that off. No offense to you guys,” he added. “But seriously, they can, like, make your head explode.”

“They can not. You are so clueless about the Gifted,” Sauvage snapped, and the two began bickering.

“The political situation is complicated,” Jean-Marc explained in an undervoice to Izzy. “Think of yourself as the long-lost oldest daughter of a large dysfunctional family.”

She frowned. “How large? How many Bouvards are there?”

“In New Orleans, about three hundred. But all over your territory? Ten times that.”

Three thousand people with magical powers? And they expected her to be their next fearless leader?

“That’s a joke, right?”

He shook his head.

The limo rolled to a stop. At once men and women dressed in black suits poured from the front door and gathered in a line between the limo and the crowd. They were heavily armed.

Jean-Marc pointed and said, “Those are state-of-the-art submachine guns. Each operative who is holding one is also a seventh-degree Bouvard magic user.”

“What degree am I?”

His expression never changed. “That’s not a meaningful measurement for you quite yet.”

From the front seat, Michel cocked his head and pressed his fingertips against his ear. He was wearing an earphone. He announced, “The governor and the mayor have both arrived. They’re in your private briefing room.”

“My private briefing room,” she echoed. The governor. The mayor.

Then the limo stopped and the operatives grouped around the door. Jean-Marc got out of the way and took from the closest security detail what appeared to be a shield. He held it above her head and said, “Please, welcome to your family home. Bienvenue à la Maison des Flammes.”

Bodies pressed around her. She couldn’t see anything, and she could barely breathe. Jean-Marc walked in front of her, taking her hand in a protective gesture.

“We’re moving you in through a side door,” Jean-Marc said as everyone turned en masse to the right.

The cheers and boos began to coalesce and form a rhythm, like a chant. The words were muffled by the footsteps surrounding her, but the intensity of the emotion—whether welcoming or hostile—unnerved her.

“What are they saying?” she asked Jean-Marc, but her attention was diverted as the operatives parted into two lines, one on either side of her. She looked down the corridor they made to see a heavily armed guard standing in front of a door the color of a gloomy Manhattan winter afternoon.

“Madame,” the guard said, snapping to attention. With military precision, he took a step to the right, pulled a swipe card from around his neck, and held it out to her.

Jean-Marc intercepted it. He placed it in his palm and waved his other palm over it. It glowed; he turned it over, inspecting it.

“It’s all right.” He handed it to her and stepped aside.

It was fairly obvious that she was supposed to unlock the door. She walked toward it and saw a keypad with a swipe strip beside it, exactly as they appeared at the entrance to the Prop cage at work.

She walked up to it and swiped the card along the strip. The door rose vertically, like a panel.

Two figures stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the other side of the door. They were dressed in blindingly shiny Medieval armor just as she had seen at the Cloisters, with closed helmets over their faces topped with miniature swords encrusted with moonstones and bits of black, so that they looked like white-hot flames.

As one, they knelt on one knee and lowered their heads.

She heard Jean-Marc’s voice in her head. “Merci bien, mes chevaliers. Je suis Isabelle Bouvard.”

She repeated it out loud. Flawlessly. She heard herself and marveled. Magic was afoot. Her body thrummed with it.

The knights stood at attention, their armor clinking. Then they wheeled smartly around, in an about-face, and glided forward. They did not walk. They made no sound at all as they moved.

“Freaky-deaky,” Ruthven muttered.

“Shh,” Sauvage snapped at him.

As the entourage progressed, Izzy’s feet left the floor as well. She was floating.

Jean-Marc took her hand again.

The heady scent of oranges wafted around her. She was buoyed higher and a white mist surrounded Jean-Marc, the two knights and her.

She looked over her shoulder, but she could see nothing through the fog.

A rectangle of light formed in front of the knights. They glided toward it and then through it and disappeared.

Jean-Marc said, “You know this will change everything.”

She said, “No, I don’t know that.”

He nodded slowly. “Cautious to the last. I admire your tenacity.”

“You’re doing nothing to reassure me. You know that,” she said.

They exchanged a long look. She focused on his dark, compelling eyes. She wanted him to reassure her. She wanted him to comfort her and to tell her everything was going to be fine.

Instead he said, “I have not lied to you, ever. I won’t start now.”

Then he tightened his grip on her hand, as if to ensure that she would not bolt, and urged her across the threshold.

E nd of the road. I’m here, Izzy thought. And there’s a lot more here than was in Jean-Marc’s magic mirror.

The white mist wafted around her as she stood at the end of a long corridor lined on either side by dozens of women seated on graceful wooden benches with white satin padded backs and cushioned seats. The women were wearing long white gowns like hers, the hems so long they bunched over their feet. White veils concealed their heads and faces. Each one held the hand of the one beside her—some young and unlined, others wizened and veined. The two on Izzy’s end each held a glowing white sphere in her free hand.

Behind and above the women, mosaics in shades of ivory depicted flames and hearts glowing and shifting like kaleidoscopes. Overhead, circular chandeliers of platinum glowed with multifaceted white stones.

The room seemed to stretch forever, a trick of the light, perhaps…or a bit of magic. Something gleamed at the opposite end, but it was so far away she couldn’t make out what it was.

The two knights flanked Izzy as their disembodied voices announced in English, “The Daughter of the Flames.”

As one, the veiled faces turned toward her. She couldn’t see their faces, but Izzy felt their scrutiny, and her chest tightened.

“Why are they dressed like that?” she asked him. “For that matter, why am I?”

“Tradition, ritual, magic. A blend. White gowns echo the white robe Jehanne wore when she was burned at the stake. More practically, the veils help them concentrate their magical currents. Or so they say.” He made a face. “Me, it would drive me crazy.”

“Me, too,” she said. It seemed repressive; it made her uneasy. Was she expected to do something like this?

Not going to happen.

“They are les Femmes Blanches. The White Women. They’re renowned throughout the Grand Covenate as healers,” he went on. “They’ve been specially trained to share their magical essence with her.”

She gave her head a little shake. “I don’t understand.”

He continued. “The Ungifted have accepted the mind-body connection—that how and what they think can directly affect their physical health. We Gifted have a third component—our magical bodies. Les Femmes Blanches work to keep your mother’s magical body from failing.”

She still wasn’t grasping it. “So…are they in contact with her? They talk to her, the way you and I talk in our heads?”

“Non. No one has been able to reach her.”

Except me, maybe, Izzy thought, thinking of her premonitions, the voice that on occasion guided her. Jehanne or Marianne?

“Then how do they know it’s working?”

“I don’t know,” he said bluntly. “I’m not a Bouvard, and I can’t pretend to fully understand it. I’m not sure they do.”

His mouth quirked, but there was no humor in his expression. “No Guardienne has ever been in a coma for twenty-six years before. But your House is convinced that the connection is vital. That if les Femmes Blanches were to stop their vigil, your mother would die.”

She tried to process that. “Do you agree?”

“I don’t know.” He gestured to the rows of women. “But they’ve dedicated their lives to maintaining the connection. Some of them are second generation, mother sitting beside daughter.”

“They stay in here all the time?” she asked, looking around the room.

“In shifts,” he said. “They rotate with two other groups. They even take vacations.”

“It’s their job?”

He shook his head. “Their calling. And one of the arguments the opposition has put forward for choosing a new heir. A generation of Gifted women have spent their lives trying to preserve Marianne’s existence. They see that as a waste. Others, as a privilege and an honor.”

“And if they…stopped?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that they tell me their bond with her has been weakening. She is taking less of the magical energy they offer her. And her physical body is beginning to deteriorate rapidly. Both les Femmes Blanches and Marianne’s medical support team insisted upon getting you here as quickly as possible.”

“And now I’m here,” she said.

“And now you’re here.” He gazed down at her. His gaze was smoldering. “Not many women would have consented to come.”

He inclined his head. “No matter what happens next, I’m grateful to you for that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

“I did. I pushed, but you always had a choice.”

“Fair enough.”

She raised her chin. Everyone held a collective breath, she included. The next move was hers to make.

She closed her eyes, trying to strip out her fear and anxiety, and to discern what to do.

She had a strong, clear knowing that she needed to be apart from Jean-Marc for this meeting. He was a man, and that mattered, somehow. She didn’t want to do this alone, away from her only ally. But it was what must be.

Opening her eyes, she put out a restraining hand and murmured to him, “Stay here.”

“As you wish,” he replied.

She glided forward on the mist, alone. The woman nearest to Izzy’s right began to get to her feet as Izzy came abreast of her. But her companion gently tugged her hand.

Izzy moved on. Her heart was pounding; her hands were damp. She wanted to turn back. She wanted Jean-Marc to come with her.

But this was her walk, her path, not his.

As she passed each veiled face and looked at the pairs of hands tightly entwined with each other, a pulse of energy surged through her like a mild shock. She scrutinized the blank, veiled faces. Were they sending her a message? Greeting her? She didn’t know. There was so much she didn’t know. No wonder Jean-Marc had been overwhelmed by the idea of teaching her about the world of the Gifted. It was like landing on another planet.

I can’t do this, she thought.

Yes, you can, chère, a voice inside her head replied.

Another voice said, We’ll help you do this.

We are your cousins in blood and in magic. You’re one of us.

She didn’t want to be one of them. A faceless woman in a room? No thank you.

And yet she became aware that with each movement forward, the surges increased, buoying her. Her anxiety slipped away, very gradually, and her spirits rose to a mild euphoria.

She held out her hands before her and turned them over. Her palms began to faintly glow. And then her fingers and her arms. She was glowing with white light.

A ripple went through the right line of women, answered by the left. The veiled women murmured quietly; she heard a whisper. Guardienne. We’re with you, chère.

She didn’t want them to be with her. She didn’t want to be here at all.

Finally she saw what lay before her.

It was the gilt bed she had seen in Jean-Marc’s magic mirror, festooned with white lilies from a crystal hanger dangling from the ceiling. Luminous white pillar candles in large filigree candleholders stood like sentinels on either side.

Between the candles, a figure reclined, positioned so that it faced Izzy. It was shrouded in white fabric like the veils of les Femmes Blanches; she saw only its silhouette, could only imagine what it looked like. On either side, a veiled woman sat with her hand beneath the cover. White light was streaming from the bed, casting a nimbus around the figure. The light was caught in the mosaics and reflected in the shiny white metal chandeliers. It pulsed; it was as if the room itself breathed in and out, with light.

Banks of hospital machines were piled one on top of another behind the bed. The whooshing sound of a ventilator was like a distant wind. An EKG readout said 108. The setup reminded her of Ma’s many hospital stays, and she felt a wave of panic at being around lingering sickness and possible death again—especially so soon after Big Vince’s disclosure.

Am I to watch two mothers die?

She began to sweat, her hands to shake.

I can’t do it.

Then sweet soprano voices rose in song. Was it the women in the room? She couldn’t tell, but she had heard them before: in the tunnel of white light when, apparently, she had died.

Is that what magic is about? Death?

The singing buoyed her, as Jean-Marc’s magic had so many times previous. She allowed it to affect her; she would take help where she got it, to get through this.

She approached the bed, studying the shrouded figure as the voices caressed her ears. Steeling herself, she glided onward, and the mist evaporated; she walked on the solid floor to the right side of the bed, careful not to jostle the veiled woman who sat vigil beside it.

Ma mère. The French words popped into her head. My mother.

Hesitantly, Izzy gathered the fabric from above the head of the body in the bed and lifted it up. The singing cut off abruptly and a collective gasp issued from the women, as if she had done something very wrong—something she should have known not to do. The one closest to her whispered, “Guardienne.”

Izzy looked down, swaying with shock. She had already seen her face, in Jean-Marc’s mirror. But in the flesh, in her coma, looking exactly like Izzy…

“Ma mère,” Izzy choked out, burying her face in her hands. Her knees buckled and she sank down into the mist, weeping.

Strong arms seized her. Warmth seeped into her. It was Jean-Marc. He had run the length of the room to come to her.

“I know this is a shock,” he said under his breath. “Would you like to stay here awhile? I’ll tell Gelineau and the others to come back later.”

She’d forgotten about the people waiting to meet her. About the mansion, and the vampires, and the politics, and all of it.

“Oh,” she said dully. “Them.”

“I’m sorry.” He apologized a lot. He didn’t mean it, though. He just said it to fill time while she pulled herself together after whatever blow he had just dealt her.

She moved out of his embrace and walked back to the bed.

Below Marianne’s chin, at the base of her neck, a plastic tube was inserted into her throat and trailed down the side of the bed. It was the trach tube for her ventilator.

They’ve kept you alive all this time, because they were looking for your successor. Do you know that? Do you see me? Do you know they brought me here because they think you’re dying?

Then her thoughts drifted; she floated as light refracted, bounced off shadows. Then she heard a heartbeat, rushing and surging in her ears, throughout her body, deep into her soul. She heard a voice:

“Ma belle Isabelle. My sweet one. Comme je t’aime, ma douce.”

“Maman?” Izzy whispered. Without warning, she reached down and cupped the sides of Marianne’s face.

A gale force buffeted her body; wind rushed through her head. Her heartbeat clanged like a gong and a deep, sharp burning sizzled through the center of her head. She swayed and then she fell overboard, down, down, into a well of white light.

“Go forward now.” She didn’t know if Marianne was whispering the words or if it was the mother she had always loved and always missed, Anna Maria. “It is your time. Mine is over…”

Les Femmes Blanches were shouting. Some cheered. Izzy staggered back from Marianne’s bed with her left hand wrapped around her wrist. Her hand was smoking. Her palm burned and sizzled.

“Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais?” Jean-Marc said, grabbing her hand and examining it.

In the center of her palm, the shape of a flame had been burned into her flesh.

A door opened in the wall and six or seven people in white scrubs raced to Marianne’s side. Four of them were wheeling in more hospital equipment. Izzy recognized a defib machine, an oxygen bottle.

They scrambled around Marianne, checking readouts, examining the many tubes and cords streaming from the bed like tentacles.

An Asian woman in scrubs bent over Marianne. She clicked on a penlight and examined first her right eye and then her left. She placed a stethoscope in her ears and pressed the listening end on Marianne’s chest. She gazed at the wall of machines, her lips moving soundlessly.

“She’s…she’s…” The woman looked first at her colleagues, then at Izzy.

“She’s better.”

As one, the medical team turned and stared at Izzy.

Then they sank to their knees and bowed their heads.

The veiled women knelt, as well, maintaining their chain.

And then Jean-Marc knelt.

Izzy remained standing as she looked down at Marianne.

She could swear that she was smiling.

Izzy knew it was not what anyone had expected. This was not part of Jean-Marc’s plan, whatever plan he had.

Izzy had changed things.

The room swirled; she stared at the crown of Jean-Marc’s head. He was the only familiar thing in the room. The only person here she knew.

Except for Marianne.

Surrendering, Izzy took a breath and gazed at Jean-Marc as he raised his head. Their gazes locked and she nodded at him.

He nodded back.

He did not smile.

 

Minutes later, Izzy and Jean-Marc left Marianne’s chamber. Jean-Marc pressed his palm over Izzy’s, removing the pain of the burn as effectively as if the wound had never occurred. As she examined the flame-shaped brand, Michel met them in the corridor. There was no white mist this time. The spectral knights had disappeared, as well. Act two of her dramatic arrival in New Orleans was far more mundane—despite the miracle that had occurred in Marianne’s room.

“I’ve asked the governor and the mayor to join us in the great room,” Michel told them. Neither Izzy nor Jean-Marc told him what had just happened. If Jean-Marc wanted to play it close to the vest, that was fine with her.

“D’accord,” Jean-Marc replied. He said to Michel, “Where’s Alain? I expected him to greet us.” His voice was tight; Izzy knew him well enough to know that he was worried.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since breakfast,” Michel said.

Jean-Marc frowned, began to say something, and held his tongue.

Michel and Jean-Marc walked on either side of Izzy as they headed deeper into the house. The three stepped into an old-fashioned birdcage elevator. Michel slid the wrought-iron door shut and the cage creaked up two floors, revealing more splendors of the house—Grecian statues, trickling fountains and expansive Victorian-era rooms decorated in white and gold.

They reached the third story. Michel slid the door open and Jean-Marc guided her through a warren of corridors paneled in dark wood and ivory-flocked wallpaper.

Then Michel opened two large, oak-grained double doors and the three swept into the great room of the mansion.

It was octagonal, like the library room back in the safe house in New York. Enormous mosaic windows of flames at least twenty feet tall rose to the top of the ceiling. They were swathed in cream-velvet hangings. A chandelier the size of a sofa glittered and gleamed with crystal teardrops over hundreds of people, milling and talking.

“Isabelle de Bouvard, Maison des Flammes,” a voice rang out.

Faces turned expectantly toward Izzy. Men and women—some of them were very old, some young. Others were decked in goth regalia, like Sauvage and Ruthven. Upon seeing Izzy, Sauvage ran to her side and squeezed her hand.

“Freaky, huh?” she whispered.

A group of men looked like monks in black hooded robes. Or maybe Jawas. There were at least two dozen women in white gowns like the women downstairs, except that their veils had been raised off their faces but still covered their hair. They looked like Catholic noviates—nuns who had yet to take their final vows.

Twenty or so other women wore elaborate evening gowns, their male escorts in tuxes. Others were dressed in beautifully tailored street clothes—power suits, dresses created for nighttime business functions.

All of them were staring at her.

And not all of them were human.

Three…creatures stood off to one side. Their faces were green and leathery, their eyes almond-shaped and yellow. They were vaguely reptilian, wearing purple hooded robes that covered their heads.

A few rows from the back, an extremely pale woman fixed on Izzy with scarlet eyes. She was dressed in a simple black-satin gown and her stark white hair hung in ringlets down to her waist. Rows of fangs were tipped with sparkling gems, which glittered and gleamed as she smiled at the newcomer in their midst.

“Holy crap,” Sauvage murmured.

Jean-Marc gently moved Sauvage aside and stood beside Izzy. Sauvage rejoined the little pocket of goths. Her boyfriend Ruthven put his arm around her.

“Il faut présenter,” Jean-Marc began, then gave his head a little shake. Switching to English, he said, “I introduce you to Isabelle, Heiress of the Flames.”

A sigh of admiration wafted around the room. About half of the onlookers knelt on one knee. A few swept curtsies or bowed from the waist. More than a few looked at her skeptically.

“Is she truly the one?” asked the fanged creature. Her voice was very sexy, very feminine.

Heads swiveled in the woman’s direction. Those around her parted to give her room as she moved forward through the group. It was clear that some of the others were afraid of her.

“Oui,” Jean-Marc replied. “She truly is.”

The creature glided more than literally walked. Out of the corner of her eye, Izzy saw Sauvage and her boyfriend tense. Sauvage’s gaze traveled from Izzy to the creature to Jean-Marc and back again.

The fanged woman studied Izzy’s neck. Her wide, sharp smile nearly split her face in two as she halted.

“You know more about our world than Jean-Marc led us to believe,” she hissed. “What a pretty little crucifix.”

“This is Madame Sange,” Jean-Marc told Izzy. “She leads a family of vampires allied with us.”

Izzy had suspected she was a vampire, but hearing the word out loud made her want to bolt. Izzy felt Jean-Marc’s hand tighten around her bicep. Which was good, because her knees had turned to rubber and she could no longer stand.

“I’m a Catholic,” Izzy snapped, to hide her fear. “I wear a crucifix all the time.”

“Ah,” Sange said, affecting a moue of disappointment. “And here I thought my reputation had preceded me.”

There were a few more scattered forced chuckles; someone coughed.

“The Regent promised me that I would be shown respect,” Izzy said as she forced herself to take a step toward the statuesque creature. Jean-Marc released her arm and lowered his to his side. “I’m not here for you to score points off.”

“Go, Guardienne,” Sauvage murmured appreciatively.

Sange turned her bloody gaze on Jean-Marc. “How can we be certain you’ve located the correct woman?”

“She is the one,” Jean-Marc insisted.

“But you were wrong before.”

“What?” Izzy look at Jean-Marc, who stared impassively at Sange, appearing calm, but his reddening cheeks betrayed him. Sange was deliberately putting him on the spot.

Sange smiled evilly at Izzy. “Didn’t the Regent mention a young woman named Christine? He ‘found’ her about six months after he took over. He was sure she was Marianne’s daughter. And she died under his protection.”

“No, the Regent sure as hell didn’t mention that,” Izzy snapped. There was a murmur throughout the room; she sensed shifting loyalties, new impressions. She reminded herself that an NYPD precinct house was a hotbed of politicking and fraternization; this gathering was no different, at least in that respect.

“It’s immaterial,” he replied. “Isabelle is the one. She destroyed a fabricant without any assistance.”

That caused another stir. As if to take advantage of his momentum, Jean-Marc clutched her wrist and held up her hand, displaying the fresh brand in her palm.

“And when she touched her mother, this appeared.”

Gasps filled the room. Six or seven of the assembled knelt. Two of les Femme Blanches embraced each other and began to weep. One of the hooded men stepped forward. Izzy couldn’t see his face, and she wondered if he had one.

“That is surely a sign,” the man proclaimed. “Marianne has the same brand.”

“She is the Heiress,” another of the hooded men said. “Our new Guardienne.”

“Marianne is still alive,” a man in a tuxedo argued. He was rotund, with blond hair and sideburns. “Isn’t she? That means she’s the Guardienne. And as for having a specific brand, Desta’s got a tarantula tattooed on her back. But that doesn’t make her Spider-Man.”

He looked challengingly Izzy; she knew she had seen his photograph in the stack of dossiers Michel had shown her, and she racked her brains. Desta…

He was Mayor Gelineau.

“Well? Is Marianne still alive or not?” Gelineau demanded, hooking thumbs in his cummerbund and rocking back on his heels.

“Marianne is still alive,” Jean-Marc said evenly.

“And we don’t have time for this,” Gelineau said. “It will be dark in a couple of hours, and Le Fils will be back in business.”

Izzy wondered how it could be that Sange was present during daylight hours. Jean-Marc had said the vampire minions couldn’t hunt her once dawn rose. Was Sange a different kind of vampire? Or was she protected from the sun because she was indoors?

I know so little. I know practically nothing.

“Le Fils is never out of business,” grumbled an older man with silver hair and jowls as he moved out from the crowd. Izzy remembered his picture, too. He was the Superintendent of Police. Broussard. “I have informants all over the French Quarter who tell me he’s got something going on in that haunted convent on Rue Casconnes.”

Izzy blinked, aware of increased scrutiny on herself. She turned her head; about twenty feet away, an older woman stood alone, an intense expression of loathing on her face. Her wild, curly hair was gray, and her face, though lined, was classically beautiful. She was wearing a loose black-velvet top and black wool pants; her jaw was clenched and her hands were tellingly balled at her sides.

Izzy left Jean-Marc’s side and walked toward her; people bowed and moved out of Izzy’s way as she approached. The elderly woman did neither, simply waited for Izzy to come to her.

Izzy stopped. All eyes were on the two of them.

The woman raised her chin, as if in defiance.

Izzy said, “Madame Mirielle, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Mirielle’s eyes slitted; Izzy heard, quite distinctly, a voice inside her head.

I don’t want you here. You’re an imposter.

That remains to be seen, Izzy replied silently.

The woman blinked. Izzy did not.

As Izzy returned to her original spot, a third man had joined Gelineau and Broussard. Dapper in a tux, he sported a head of snowy-white hair and a white goatee that, frankly, made him look like a skinny version of the Kentucky Fried Chicken guy.

“Governor Jackson,” she said. “Superintendent Broussard. Mayor Gelineau.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve done your homework,” Governor Jackson said. His voice was cold. “If so, you know that New Orleans is in a state of panic. And your family is falling down on the job.”

“Well, if you’ve done your homework,” Izzy retorted, “you know things are about to change.” She had no idea what that meant, exactly. But it sounded good.

Suddenly the room tinkled with silvery bells. A shiny metal knight appeared in the center of the room. Sauvage leaped into Ruthven’s arms and Izzy instinctively took hold of Jean-Marc’s forearm.

“The meal is served,” the knight announced. Then he—it?—vanished.

No one else so much as blinked.

Everyone turned to Izzy. Jean-Marc offered his arm. She took it, and the two led the way into an enormous formal dining room. Izzy had never seen such a long table in her life; it was a very dark, highly polished table laden with gold dishes and lily centerpieces. Rows of gold tableware glittered beneath chandeliers of moonstones and white crystals.

“The food will be New Orleans style,” Jean-Marc told her. “Gumbo, jambalaya, beignets. More wine than you can imagine.”

“Suddenly I’m not hungry,” she confessed.

Jean-Marc said, “I’m here,” he reminded her. “This is for show. This is so they can see you. It’s been arranged that you will sit at the head of the table. I will sit at your right hand.”

“You usually sit at the head,” she guessed. “You’re making a statement by putting me there.”

“Oui.”

And with that, they swept into dinner. Jean-Marc was tense. After a while, he called over a man wearing a dark suit and an earpiece, who was standing near the door and spoke to him in rapid French. The man shook his head. Jean-Marc muttered something, and the man returned to his post.

When Izzy looked questioningly at Jean-Marc, he said, “My cousin’s missing.”

“The one you did the rituals for?”

“Oui. I’ve sent out security to search for him. So far, no luck.”

“Do you want to go?” she asked.

He gazed at her. “That’s not an option,” he told her.

“But…”

“It’s not an option,” he said again.

A waiter approached with a golden basket of breadsticks and offered one to Izzy. She took it; then suddenly everything began to whirl, the room to tilt. She laid the bread on her plate as she broke into a sweat.

Jean-Marc saw her distress. He quirked his left eyebrow; she said, “This is too much for me.”

He studied her. “You’re right. I can see it in your aura.” He put his napkin to his lips. “I’ll get you out of here.”

She considered. “Get me through dinner.”

“Agreed.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “But no meeting after. I told Michel not to do it.”

“Thank you,” she breathed.

Dinner dragged on interminably. People spoke to her, courted her, subtly insulted her. She responded on total autopilot. She was exhausted and beyond stressed.

She was barely aware of the curtsies and bows that accompanied her exit from the dining room as Jean-Marc escorted her out. Sauvage and Ruthven looked cast adrift, but she was too tired to deal with them. She was trembling with fatigue.

Jean-Marc said, “I’ll take you to your bedroom. It’s on this floor.”

“No. Take me to Marianne’s chamber.” When he hesitated, she placed a hand on his arm. “I need to be there. Please.”

He looked down at her hand, then into her eyes. She felt the low-level connection between them and it made her tremble harder.

“I’ll take you,” he said, and she wondered if he was aware of the double meaning of his words.

 

He walked beside her as she traversed the length of the hall past les Femmes Blanches. She lowered the fabric from Marianne’s face again and glanced at the brand on her palm. It had healed into a dark pink scar.

Andre and the others had flown separately from New York, circling above the mansion for most of the dinner. Jean-Marc had asked them to come in, assigning Andre to guard Izzy while he dealt with the fallout of the canceled meeting.

Andre wore what she assumed was his native garb—a buckskin jacket with fringes, military-green parachute pants and heavy boots. He wore a necklace of what looked to be a string of feathers and chicken feet, and when he caught her gazing at it in repulsed fascination, he said, “This is a gris-gris. I know Jean-Marc, he don’t have no truck with voudon, him.” He grinned at Jean-Marc. “But I’m a Cajun and I know the bokors take good care of Andre.”

“They’re trash,” Jean-Marc huffed.

“Mais non, cher,” Andre protested. “You need to be more tolerant. Don’t he, Madame?”

“Ah,” she said, having no idea what else to say.

He pointed to her rose quartz necklace. “That’s a gris-gris, same as this. Your cross, too. Just a different magical style. And Cajuns, we got a lot of style.” He chuckled. “We’ll have you over to our place, have a fais-do-do and welcome you to New Orleans the right way!”

“Thank you.”

Leaning over Izzy’s shoulder, Jean-Marc said, “I’ve had a room made up for you.” He gestured to a petite blond woman in white scrubs, who drew near and gave Izzy a little curtsy.

“This is Annette de Bouvard,” Jean-Marc explained. “She is one of your mother’s medical nurses. I place Madame in your special care,” Jean-Marc told her.

“What an honor,” she said sincerely.

“Isabelle,” Jean-Marc began. He scratched his chin, as if he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say next. He had a heavy five o’ clock shadow; she wondered how long he’d been up.

He said, “In New York, magic use was fairly minimal. I wasn’t supposed to even be there, and I knew it would be unpredictable. It’s that way in New Orleans proper. When we’re out in the streets, we stay beneath the radar of the Ungifted. When we’re playing by the rules, that is. Le Fils and the voodoo bokors—” he glanced in Andre’s direction “—are pushing the limits. The Ungifted in power don’t like that.”

“And the Malchances,” Andre added. “They don’t like it, either. And they’re the worst.”

“Which we can’t prove, and which the Grand Covenate seems to be intent on ignoring,” Jean-Marc added, shaking his head.

“But that’s another subject. What I am trying to tell you is that out here in the swamps, magic is going to be far more common. More intense. You may find it frightening.”

“O-kay,” she said slowly.

Jean-Marc kept going. “I sent out a memo before you arrived to keep it down at your first meeting. But they’re going to forget. For Gifted, using magic is as common as breathing.”

Andre nodded. “Jean-Marc is right, him. You stick close with us, chère.”

“All right,” she said. “Thanks for the warning.”

“It is a warning.” Jean-Marc could not have looked more somber if he was attending a funeral. “Go rest,” he ordered, and then he left.

 

Go rest. Was he kidding?

She was a nervous wreck.

Andre shadowing her, Izzy followed Annette through the door from which Izzy had seen the medical team emerge. She was astonished at what she saw: banks of monitors and equipment, and about half a dozen technicians seated at them. They glanced at her, rising, bowing.

Izzy, Annette and Andre walked on through the room; wrapping her hand around a crystal doorknob, Annette opened another door with a flourish.

Izzy was charmed. There was a white iron daybed made up in white satin sheets. White picture frames displayed paintings of lilies. There was a white wood desk and a white whicker chair. And beyond, a bathroom with a clawfoot tub and a hand shower.

And neatly folded on a graceful stool, a gauzy white nightgown, much like the one she had back home. Izzy felt the tranquility of the room. Savored the sense of solitude.

Annette said, “If you need anything, anything, just call me.”

“Merci,” Izzy said, surprising herself by speaking in French.

“De rien,” Annette replied, bobbing another little curtsy.

The two left her in peace. As soon as the door was shut, she filled the tub. She found some rose-scented bubble bath in a cupboard over the toilet, which was in a small alcove set off discreetly from the tub. As the tub ran, she took off her clothes.

With a sigh, she slid into the steamy bath. She picked up a luxurious bar of soap and washed herself. Then she found shampoo and washed her hair. She used the hand shower to rinse. The cares and fears of the last few hours did not slide away entirely, but she felt rejuvenated. Hopeful.

As her lids fluttered, she realized she was about to drift off. Not a good place to sleep, a tub. Reluctantly she pulled out the stopper and let the water down the drain.

She wrapped her body in a thick white towel emblazoned with the letter B in a ring of fire. Then she put on the nightgown, found a matching robe beneath it, and carried it to the bed as she pulled back the covers.

Last night I slept with Pat, she thought. She remembered how he moved inside her; the sensation of him thrusting, the taste of him. She closed her eyes with longing. When would she see him again?

She drowsed. Then all too soon, she heard a soft knock on the door. She groaned.

She sat up, slipped on the bathrobe and padded across the room.

“I’m awake,” she said, opening the door. Then she fell forward.

Into the nightmare forest of her recurring dream.

W hat’s happening? Izzy thought, as she tumbled onto the boggy earth. Her hands sank into mucky ooze. How did I get here?

“Andre!” she shouted.

A whooping, crazed animal cry answered her. Cypress trees stretched and shivered as they reached toward the blood-red moon, then collapsed back into the dank water, as if the vines and moss wrapped around their trunks had suffocated them.

The forest all around her was slithering with shadows.

I’m not really here. I’m having the nightmare, she reminded herself. It made sense—her high stress level, her exhaustion—everything that was happening—here she was.

Running.

From monsters: she heard them baying. Something panted as it charged after her. She could smell its breath and feel its heat. She didn’t dare turn to look at it as she ducked a glistening vine. She slogged into water again, then back onto mucky ground. Roots threaded between her toes. Then her foot came down on something sharp and she body-slammed a tree trunk, grabbing on to it and clutching her foot.

Four deep slashes across the trunk were fresh.

“Madame Bouvard?”

A tall, brown-haired man trotted into her line of vision. He was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with NOPD written on the back in white, and he was carrying a rifle. He had a holster at his side and she could see a revolver.

He drew up short; he cupped the barrel of the rifle with his left hand as he laid it over his chest.

The wolf howls rose in pitch and frenzy. The man scanned left, right, tense, alert…and frightened.

He said, “Where’s your gun?”

About fifteen feet to their right, a shadow glided through the darkness. The whooping rose to a shrill shriek. The trees and vines jittered in a frenzy. Clouds raced across the moon, slicing the bloody sphere in half, fog spilling out like clots.

“Hustle it up! They’re dogging you!” the man in the windbreaker shouted.

Then the shadow burst out of the forest with an unholy shriek, and flung her to the forest floor.

Her head cracked hard against the tree trunk; she groaned as explosions of light blotted out her vision. Whatever had landed on her stank like rotten meat.

It raised a limb—serrated, like an insect leg—and swiped at her. Jagged, incisor-like nails sliced her cheek, cutting deeply; she felt scalded, burnt. Shocked, she batted ineffectually at her attacker.

The sharp report of a rifle shot cracked against her eardrum.

The thing swiped at her again. This time she blocked it, panting as the serrations on the limb pierced her arm.

“Let me get a good shot!” he yelled.

Then the thing straddled her. Moonlight fell across it, revealing a triangular face, covered with a wet, purple skin that had no places for eyes, or a nose; but the bottom point of the triangle fell open as a set of bone-white upper and lower jaws extended from it and sprang toward her.

Its teeth clacked; she cried out, jerking her head to the side, and the jaws struck the tree trunk behind her. A handful of its teeth dislodged and showered down on her.

“Shoot it, damn it!” she yelled.

There was no shot, no response from the man.

“Jehanne, Marianne, aidez-moi,” she prayed.

She formed her right hand into a palm strike and aimed it at the monster. She willed it to grow hot. It burned and sizzled; it was agony.

She clenched her teeth hard and screamed, “Help me! Now!”

Energy bubbled from her flesh, coagulating into a sphere of platinum-white light. It slammed into the monster’s face and threw the thing backward, where it slammed against the trunk and exploded into a supernova of sparks.

Izzy rolled over on her stomach, heaving, retching. Her body convulsed as she got to her hands and knees. Blood dripped from her face. She began to hyperventilate as more adrenaline poured through her system.

She craned her neck up, looking everywhere for the man.

Something was dangling from the tree.

It was a man, hung by his neck.

The figure was shrouded in darkness; she could make out only the silhouette. It twisted slowly from one side to another.

She spotted the rifle on the ground and grabbed it, raising it as she looked through the sickly green nightscope.

The scope cast white ghost trails on the crown of Jean-Marc’s wild hair; his eyes were open, but there was no life in them. His mouth hung open, slack. He looked dead.

His clothes were shredded; his chest was a gaping wound and little else….

She threw down the rifle and raced to the tree, grabbing the branches with her hands, searching for footholds with her feet—

—searching for footholds as she climbed the side of the little stone house.

What? she thought, staring up, down, around.

Now she was in a graveyard, one of New Orleans’ notorious Cities of the Dead. Statues of angels with drooping wings and sad Madonnas dotted the rows of crypts like mourners. Dead flowers drooped in vases set on stone steps. Skeletal trees dripped with Spanish moss. Tombs shaped like houses stretched beyond her range of vision, some with slanted roofs, like the one to which she clung. She was about six feet off the ground—an easy drop down.

I’m dreaming, she reminded herself. Jean-Marc wasn’t really there. I didn’t kill a monster. I’m not here.

But her nightgown was shredded. She was injured, and cold and she tasted blood in her mouth. Her dreams had never been this real before.

I’m not here.

But she was.

Jean-Marc, she sent out. I need help.

As if in reply, cruel laughter wafted toward her on a stiff breeze. Footfalls padded on the grass. Someone was coming.

She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. With no effort at all, she scrabbled on top of the tomb, shrinking back as a face met hers.

It was a marble angel, weeping tears of moss. She held on to it and she pulled her ravaged feet beneath her into a crouch, making herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Then she leaned slightly forward, straining to peer over the canted roof. An icy chill seized her abdomen and she sucked in her breath.

Julius Esposito, the missing new-hire in Prop, strode into view.

Oh, my God. He’s the bokor, Izzy realized. He helped Cratty kill Yolanda. David was working for him. He could have killed me. Could have killed Big Vince…it was only a matter of time.

A male creature walked beside Julius, statuesque in a black shirt and pants, and as bone-white as Sange. He had long hair that trailed down his back, and his red eyes glowed. Also like Sange, long, sharp fangs tipped with jewels glistened in the moonlight.

As they strolled along together, the vampire tugged on a rope. He said, “Allez, vite,” in much the same tone Jean-Marc used when he was impatient.

The rope was secured around the neck of a young girl whose arms were tied behind her back; she was dressed in a long tulle skirt, cowboy boots, and a heavy coat, and she was crying.

“Ferme-la!” The vampire sneered at her, jerking hard, making her stumble forward. Her throat closed on a strangled sob; she sounded like she was choking to death. “Your father will be the one crying, when he finds your body in the gutter.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Esposito said. His voice was thick and raspy, like that of someone who had smoked too much. “We shouldn’t antagonize Gelineau.”

The vampire laughed. “Maybe we can spare you, little Desta. Take us to your twin and we’ll kill her instead. She’s the one who always gets you into trouble, oui? She’s the one who snuck into the Quarter to drink shots with the college boys tonight.”

Izzy lifted up her palm. The moonlight gleamed on the raised welt, no longer ripped and bleeding as it had been in the forest.

I will it, she thought.

Her palm began to warm.

Then more figures emerged from behind other tombs. There was a towering, dark man dressed in a robe and a fancy headdress of feathers and beads. Several women flanked him, also in robes, their hair hidden by kerchiefs. The colors were leeched by the moonlight, but the patterns on them looked like elaborate writing in a foreign language.

Men approached, in white shirts and jeans, with drums and what appeared to be a trash bag slung over the shoulder of the largest one.

And one carried a long, gleaming knife, which he ceremoniously handed to Esposito.

At the sight of it, Desta screamed.

The knife in his right hand, Esposito backhanded her with his left. She fell to her knees, then flopped onto her side. She remained there, unmoving.

Izzy tentatively touched her palm with her fingertips. It was still only lukewarm.

Faster, she thought. Jehanne, help me.

As Izzy huddled on the rooftop, the men planted the drums in the grass. The trash bag yielded large candles, bowls, more knives…and a rooster, its legs tied together.

Two of the women picked up Desta by the wrists and ankles, and carried her as the man in the robe sprinkled ashy powder on her. Then Esposito held out the knife, and the robe man sprinkled the blade.

The drums beat, slowly, rhythmic, hypnotic. They matched her heartbeat. Esposito and the vampire looked on, arms folded.

It was a voodoo ceremony.

Esposito jerked. One arm lifted spastically; then the opposite leg. His head pushed forward, like a chicken’s. He raised his knees to his chest as he danced with the knife.

The women lowered Desta to the ground. The one at her head placed her hand beneath Desta’s chin and tilted back her head, exposing her neck.

Esposito capered toward her.

The drumbeats played louder, faster, reverberating off the crypts and statues. The earth itself seemed to rumble and jump.

Swaying, Esposito licked his lips and moved his body seductively, sexually. Lightning flashed, crashed; the sky broke open and it began to rain, hard.

Lightning sparked off the knife as the man raised it over his head. He spoke in a language she didn’t know; then the doors to the tombs crashed open and shapes emerged, their faces and bodies concealed by the driving rain.

Jehanne! Izzy pleaded, feeling her palm. Nothing was happening; it wasn’t getting any warmer—

The knife slashed down—

Izzy leaped off the crypt—

And the sky lit up with an enormous ball of purple-black energy as—

—Jean-Marc dangled lifelessly from the treetop above her, his chest gaping open, twisting in the wind.

Izzy threw back her head and screamed at the top of her lungs.

 

The door to her little bedroom in the de Bouvard mansion burst open and Andre barreled in. Izzy lay on the floor in a fetal position, shrieking.

He dropped down beside her and gathered her up against his chest.

“Mon Dieu, what happened? Au secours!” he yelled.

Annette raced into the room as Andre hoisted Izzy to her feet. He touched her face, her ruined nightgown, her muddy, matted hair.

“Where did you go? How did you get past me?” he cried.

“Jean-Marc is dead. He’s dead!” Izzy sobbed.

“Look at her hand,” Annette gasped, examining her palm.

The newly formed scar was a welt. It was bleeding; flaps of skin dangled from it. She was dripping with mud. Her feet were bloody.

Then a thundering explosion shook the room, throwing Annette to her knees. Andre and Izzy crashed into a wall, Andre’s weight pushing the air out of Izzy’s lungs.

Beyond the door, women began screaming.

“The Guardienne,” Annette whispered. She got to her feet and rushed out of the room.

“Team! Stat!” someone yelled. “We have an MI! The Guardienne’s throwing VPCs!”

Izzy scrambled to her feet and ran with Andre into Marianne’s chamber as people in scrubs surrounded Marianne’s bed. Two women were holding Marianne’s hands. One of them shouted to the other, “Don’t break the chain!”

Annette turned to Izzy. “She’s having a heart attack. Touch her. Do it like before!”

Closing her eyes, breathing deeply, Izzy placed her hands on either side of Marianne’s face and braced herself.

Nothing happened.

She did it again.

Les Femmes Blanches were huddling in a huge mass. Some of them were crying as they gripped each other’s hands.

Andre touched his forehead. “Ah, mon Dieu, is she dying? Jean-Marc, where is Jean-Marc?”

Izzy stood with both her hands on Marianne’s face as one of the women grabbed up the paddles on a defibrillator. They had a crash cart. They were prepared for heroic measures to save Marianne’s life. Izzy felt the familiar wave of panic: they had done things like this to Anna Maria—forcing her back to life.

“Defib, charge two hundred!” the Asian woman cried.

A short young man pulled down Marianne’s sheets as Annette yanked her white nightgown above her waist. Marianne’s body was young and thin.

“Clear!” the woman bellowed.

Annette said to Izzy, “You need to move away,” wrapping her hand around Izzy’s forearm and pulling her away from Marianne’s bed.

The Asian woman placed the paddles on Marianne’s chest, one to the left and one to the right.

“Clear now!” she shouted.

“Wait!” cried the veiled woman who was holding Marianne’s right hand. “We can’t break our chain!”

“You’d better, or she’s going to die,” the woman said grimly. “Right now.”

Les Femmes Blanches stirred, stared at each other. The one who had spoken turned to Izzy.

“What do we do?” she asked.

Izzy stared back. She had no idea. None whatsoever.

“Madame, I’m Dr. Janice Bouvard. I’m your mother’s physician. And I am out of time,” the Asian woman said.

Marianne’s face was turning blue.

“Let go,” Izzy ordered.

“No!” the woman cried.

“You will. You will now!” Izzy said, with no idea if she was doing the right thing.

“No!” the woman yelled back. “It’ll kill her!”

Andre took a step toward her. The woman raised her left palm. White energy began to glow in the center.

“Do it,” Izzy ordered her. “Step away.”

“Please, don’t make me do this,” the woman pleaded, bursting into tears. “She’s the Guardienne! I have sat in here for her for five years!”

“I’ll make it easy for you,” said the woman beside her, the next link in the healing chain. And she let go of the crying woman’s hand. At the same time, the woman holding Marianne’s other hand let go, bursting into tears as she did so.

“The chain!” the first woman cried. “The connection is broken!”

“Clear!” the Asian woman yelled as she pressed the button on the right paddle. Izzy heard the discharge. Marianne convulsed like a flopping fish.

“Still in defib!” someone shouted.

“Bag her!” Dr. Bouvard yelled.

Izzy looked beyond Marianne’s face to the other medical personnel working to save Marianne’s life. A coffee-hued woman put a mask over Marianne’s face and pumped the squeeze bulb attached to it, forcing air into Marianne’s lungs.

“Paddles again, people,” Dr. Bouvard announced. “Clear!”

Everyone stood back. Some of les Femmes Blanches started chanting. A few fell to their knees. Others held one another. Here and there, they were taking off their veils. They looked like ordinary women, nothing more, nothing less. Some moved their lips in prayer, or whatever it was that Gifted did, and tears ran down the faces of all of them.

The doctor hit the button. Marianne convulsed again. The doctor gazed at a readout.

“It’s good!” she announced.

Annette said to Izzy, “She’s back in business.”

“Oh, thank God, thank God,” Izzy said in a rush, stroking Marianne’s face. She bent over and kissed her forehead.

Then she straightened. She said to Andre, “I have to find Jean-Marc.”

“Leave that to me,” Andre insisted. “Stay here with your maman.”

She couldn’t. She knew she had to find him. She had to know if he was alive.

“Take care of her,” Izzy said to Annette, who swallowed hard and nodded.

Then Izzy raced out of the chamber and into the hall. Swearing, Andre barreled after her, shouting, “He won’t want you to do this!”

Michel came running toward her from the opposite direction. His eyes were enormous; a sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead, despite the coolness of the corridor.

He grabbed her by the arms. “Go back inside! The mansion is under attack!”

Izzy held her ground, pushing against him.

“Have you seen Jean-Marc?” she demanded.

“No,” Michel replied. He looked past her to Andre. “Sange says that it’s Le Fils.”

“But those are magical bursts, non?” Andre asked. “He must have Gifted with him.”

“Malchances,” Michel spat.

“I’m going upstairs,” Izzy said.

“No!” Michel said, grabbing her again. “You need to stay out of the line of fire.”

She looked at his hands on her arms and raised her chin. “Let me pass.”

Michel exhaled, overruled. “I’ll check on your mother and then I’ll join you.” He nodded at Andre. “Take her up the service stairs. It’s safer.”

She picked up the hem of her filthy, mud-soaked nightgown as Andre led her down the corridor. They ran through a door and onto plain, concrete steps that reminded her of the ones in Tria’s building. They shot up the stairs, two at a time, around and around until she was dizzy.

She heard machine gun fire. And were those grenade explosions? The pop of pistols. And swearing, in French. Screaming, in English.

As they reached the top of the landing, Andre pushed through another door and they stumbled out onto the mansion’s upper verandah, the wide balcony that surrounded the house. It was bulging with people, many of whom she recognized. The men in the hoods were there, and the leathery creatures.

A curtain of white sparkles jittered from the bottom of the balcony and rocketed into the sky. It jittered and flickered, and in the parts that were thin, balls of purple-black splattered against it, bursting into showers of sparks.

Then a black orb penetrated the field; a chunk of the white curtain disappeared and the black light took out a section of the verandah railing; the floor burst into flames.

Dazzling light from several hands put the fire out as de Bouvards massed together to combine their energy. Then the sparkling barrier began to fade again, revealing a black sky beyond. Night had fallen.

Vampires could walk.

“Our field can’t hold much longer!” a woman in an evening gown shouted. “Where’s security?”

“On the roof,” someone yelled back. “And in the air.”

There was more machine gun fire. An explosion nearly knocked Izzy off her feet. She held on to Andre, who growled, his face twitching strangely.

Behind Izzy, a beautifully feminine voice chimed, “If you’re really the next Guardienne, can’t you do something about this?”

It was Madame Sange.

“She doesn’t have the power yet,” Andre informed her, his voice deep and gravelly. His beard was lusher. His jaw, longer. His eyes had taken on an unearthly glow.

“That’s not what I heard,” Sange retorted. “I heard that she sucked power from Marianne. And that Marianne has had a heart attack because of it.”

“Have you seen Jean-Marc?” Izzy asked, ignoring her accusation.

“No,” Sange said coldly. “You should finish the job. Take all Marianne’s power. Or this family may end today.” Her fangs glistened as she exhaled in disgust. “All this because of Le Fils. Incroyable. How the mighty are fallen.”

Izzy skirted around her. Adrenaline coursed through her; despite her exhaustion she propelled herself forward, searching for Jean-Marc. Her nightmare filled her mind; she had seen him hung and gutted—

—drawn and quartered, as the English did to the loyal soldiers of Jehanne’s army—

—and silent tears slid down her cheeks as she gasped for breath, seeing him nowhere in the chaos. She smelled smoke, and blood. A man staggered past her with a deep gash in his forehead. A woman sat on the floor, holding her arm, weeping.

Izzy couldn’t speak; she sent out her thoughts. Jean-Marc!

And in the noise and confusion, a man turned and faced her from across the verandah.

Jean-Marc!

He was glowing; surrounded by a deep indigo cascade of sparks. He looked like a being from another planet. She was both frightened and awed…and relieved beyond the telling.

He was alive.

“What are you doing here?” he cried, rushing toward her. “Get out of here!”

“Oh, God, thank you,” she rasped, and threw her arms around him. She raised her face to his and he blinked, and kissed her hard. Like a lover.

Energy coursed through her; a low flame burned low and deep, and fanned upward. She answered his kiss, desperately. His body crushed against hers; his flesh burned her.

Then he broke away and said, “You have got to get out of here! Le Fils is attacking!”

He pulled on her arm and then—

Something slammed into his chest and threw him back against the wall of the house. Blood gushed from the entry wound. A torrent of it. A river.

Izzy turned to the clusters of men and women ducking the shower of debris to fling white flashes of energy off the ruined balcony.

“Officer down!” she cried, retreating into cop-speak as her mind went on automatic. “MOS!”

She grabbed two men by the arms and gestured to Jean-Marc.

“Pick the Regent up! Now!” she ordered them. “Get him out of here now!”

One of the men made motions over Jean-Marc and the unconscious man rose into the air.

“Take the Regent to Marianne’s chamber,” she said, pushing her hands over Jean-Marc’s wound. They slipped in his blood into his wound. The tangy, copper scent of blood permeated the air. She was certain she could feel his heart pumping against her palm.

Moving in tandem, she and her helpers raced back into the service stairwell. Blood gushed onto the concrete.

“Andre!” she shouted.

There was no answer.

Down the stairs, all the damn stairs, through the corridors of the House of the Flames, Izzy jogged alongside Jean-Marc, dodging people who were running without any apparent destination; simply running, because they were panicking.

Large sections of the ceiling split apart and rained down on their shoulders. She hunched forward over Jean-Marc to protect him, wincing as heavy chunks battered her, gouging into her back.

Then the door to Marianne’s chamber burst open; Izzy was alarmed that it wasn’t being guarded.

No time for that now.

“Med team, stat!” she shouted.

The dozens of veiled women had been standing in snaking lines. Some of them had pulled back their face coverings, and they were crying. Medical personnel in white scrubs and surgical masks and caps were huddled around Marianne’s bed. Dr. Bouvard had a hypo in her hand, and Annette stood at her side, her arms crossed, her shoulders slumped.

They all turned to look at her. Izzy kept her hands in Jean-Marc’s wound as Annette hurried over, took one look at his injury and went white.

“Oh, my God.” She gestured to the door where the monitoring equipment and Izzy’s bedroom were located. “We have an OR.” She said to Izzy’s helper, “Take him there.” She said to Izzy, “You stay here.”

Izzy kept running. “No. I have to compress the wound or he’ll bleed out.”

“You!” Annette yelled to a clump of veiled women. “Elise! Antoinette! Maria, come here! Help with this.” To the men, “Stop!”

Three women hurried over, grouping around Jean-Marc’s inert body.

“Stop the blood flow,” Annette ordered them. To Izzy, “Move your hands.”

“No,” Izzy said. “He’ll die.”

The tallest of the three closed her eyes, concentrating; a blinding glow emanated from her hands and she placed them over Izzy’s. The other two put their hands over the tall one’s.

The glow intensified. The heat scorched Izzy’s hands; shockwaves of pain vibrated over every cell of her skin, but Izzy didn’t let go.

“Take your hands away,” Annette instructed Izzy. When Izzy didn’t, she bellowed, “Madame, do it now or we will lose him! You’re creating a barrier!”

Izzy complied, lowering her hands to her side. Blood dripped on the floor.

A halo of white surrounded the women. Their hands glowed as if white-hot.

“Go, go, go!” Annette bellowed, leading the way. The men with Jean-Marc and the three women rushed off with her.

Izzy started to follow, but the doctor caught up with her and put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Madame,” she said, “I need to talk to you.”

Izzy said, “In a minute,” and turned on her heel.

The woman kept a firm grip on her shoulder and said, “It’s best to stay out of the way for a moment.”

“What’s going on out here? What’s wrong?” Izzy took in the medical team, the weeping women. “What’s happened?”

“She had another heart attack,” the doctor said carefully. “We couldn’t stop the damage. And…she flatlined.”

The world spun. Izzy swayed.

“She…died?”

The doctor looked caught, as if she had no idea how to proceed. She said, “Your mother is a Gifted, but she is still flesh and blood. As in other cases like this, machines are keeping her body alive. But her mind…”

The doctor looked stricken; her professional detachment had completely deserted her. She looked like what she was: a middle-aged woman faced with unacceptable circumstances, called upon to handle a situation that she simply could not respond to.

“Madame, she won’t recover.” Her voice was barely audible.

“What are you…what?” Izzy’s knees buckled. The doctor grabbed her by the upper arm.

“What in the name of the Patroness is going on?” Michel shouted as he burst into the room. A dozen women accosted him; their voices competed with one another in a frenzied babble, frightened and desperate.

One of them grabbed his hand and said, “You have to listen to us! She can’t take over! You need to do something!”

“Madame!” Michel cried, yanking his hand away and running to where Izzy was standing. He gaped at her blood-soaked face and hands. “I was told the Regent had been injured.”

“I’m fine,” Izzy said dully.

The doctor took over, stepping around Izzy to face Michel. She said, in her best professional voice, “The Guardienne has sustained irrevocable bodily insult. She has flatlined.”

All around them, the Gifted Bouvard women sobbed. A wild keening filled the room, punctuated by shrieks and pleas to Jehanne. All for nothing, all to no avail…

“Flatlined,” Michel repeated.

“For all intents and purposes, our beloved Guardienne is gone,” the doctor said brokenly. She began to cry. “She is gone.”

M ichel stared at Marianne, who lay still and silent, then at the doctor, and finally at Izzy.

“You’re covered in blood,” he said, sounding dazed. “What happened to the Guardienne?”

“It happened to Jean-Marc,” Izzy replied. “Chest wound.”

“If she is gone,” he said, “and there has been no transfer of power…”

Then I’m safe, Izzy thought. Maybe it was petty, to think of herself in that moment, but it was the thought that came. She looked anxiously at the door where they had taken Jean-Marc. Everything in her wanted to bolt through it.

“Marianne’s body is being maintained,” the doctor said carefully.

“So she is still alive,” Michel replied. Izzy couldn’t read his tone of voice. She didn’t know where he stood on the issue of Marianne’s survival. She didn’t know what he wanted.

She didn’t think she could trust him.

“Technically,” the doctor told him, drying her tears and composing herself, “she is still alive.”

There was a pause. It was a chasm, and Izzy felt herself falling into it. She couldn’t make a sound. Her hands were shaking. Her heart was beating out of rhythm, battering her rib cage like a bird trapped inside a chimney.

“Get out of my way,” Izzy ordered everyone in a raspy, gravely voice as she moved to the head of the bed.

She closed her eyes and willed heat into her palms. She imagined her magical energy traveling from her body into Marianne’s. Saw the white light, the heat; she shut her eyes and concentrated with every ounce of her ability, seeing life-giving magic in her blood, in her bones, in her cells.

She placed her hands on either side of Marianne’s face and croaked, “Live!”

But nothing happened. Marianne’s skin was cool, and there was no warmth in Izzy’s palms, no answering light around Marianne’s body. No sense of magic, anywhere. If anything, she felt weaker.

“You people are magical,” she said to Michel. “Why can’t you do anything?”

“I would ask the same of you. You’re her daughter,” Michel replied. “Save her.”

Izzy leaned forward again, this time pressing her lips against Marianne’s, pushing air into her mouth. She cupped her palms over Marianne’s heart and compressed. She leaned forward to breathe into her mouth again.

“Stop,” the doctor said, placing a restraining hand on Izzy’s forearm. “It won’t help.”

“No,” Izzy said. “No.”

At that moment Andre loped into the room, shouting, “Jean-Marc! Where is he? Our barrier is down! Le Fils is coming in!”

He stopped in his tracks as he took in his surroundings. He hurried over to Izzy and took her bloody hand in his.

“Eh, bon, jolie?” he said to Izzy, his dark gaze probing her. “What is it?”

Then a head poked out of the door to the monitoring room and a woman in white scrubs shouted, “The Regent is in trouble! We need more help!”

Izzy gazed down at Marianne.

“She’s stable,” the doctor said. Then translated, “Nothing is going to happen right now.”

Released, Izzy ran to the woman who had cried for help, who turned and led her into a fully equipped ER. Light from a huge overhanging fixture pressed down like a weight on an operating table surrounded by medical personnel and the three Femmes Blanches. Rows of surgical instruments gleamed beneath the harsh disc of light over the table.

A mask over his face, Jean-Mark lay splayed on the table. There were tubes and machines and wires and half a dozen people or more in masks and scrubs. He was nude, a sheet gathered around his pelvis.

A man in white scrubs—the surgeon?—said, “Jesus, he’s bleeding out! Get me some light and some sponges here! Type and crossmatch four units. I can’t see shit here—no, no, the pericardium looks okay—aorta is patent, looks like a couple big bleeders, there, and there. Get a hemostat on that, gimme some sutures here!”

Someone said, “Pulse is rapid and thready, one-ten, respirations thirty-two and shallow. BP is eighty over forty.”

“He’s shocky!” said a new voice.

She and Andre moved closer. Her gaze shot over Jean-Marc’s blue-tinged skin, the gaping wound. His chest was an unbelievable ruin. She didn’t know a person could be so badly injured and yet be alive.

Izzy put her hands on Jean-Marc’s forehead, violating the sterile field. His skin was icy.

“Jehanne, aidez-moi,” she whispered, exhaling, inhaling, trying to concentrate. “Please, please don’t let him die.”

She willed warmth into her palms, healing energy into Jean-Marc. But there was nothing. She had never felt more like ordinary Izzy DeMarco than in that moment.

“We’re losing him!” one of the team shouted.

“Isabelle! Do it!” Andre cried. He ripped his chicken-feet gris-gris from around his neck and draped it around her neck.

She tried again.

Again.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she conceded. “I’m…helpless.”

“You are not,” he insisted. His eyes blazed with fury. His face lengthened and he growled, deep and angry and feral. His eyes caught the light; they were more golden. His teeth were growing before her eyes. “You can have all the power. You know it!”

She looked at him. “What?”

His eyes glittered like hard, smoky topazes. “You know. Turn off Marianne’s life support and the Kiss of Fire will pass to you.”

He looked as shocked by what he said as she did. They stared at each other.

There was one second where it could have been a mistake. But he left it there, spoken out loud.

He wiped his forehead and said, “That’s what must be done, chère.”

“Madame, we’re losing him,” the surgeon told Izzy. His eyes above his mask were unreadable.

The three women in white stared at her, hushed, anxious, expectant.

“Stay with me,” Izzy said to Jean-Marc. She took his hand and squeezed it. If he went, she was alone here. If he went, he would take her heart with him.

He would take everything.

She gave herself the luxury of one last doubt; then she ran back through the double doors, back through the monitoring room, where the techs were hunched over their monitors.

Then back into the room where Marianne lay, lifeless but not dead. Izzy took her limp, unresponsive hand in both of hers, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

 

There was a tunnel of white and the angelic sopranos of women singing for joy. A female figure stood at the end of the brilliant light. Her arms were outstretched and filled with lilies.

Izzy couldn’t see her face, but she knew who she was.

Her mother.

Lilies and oranges; a life together that they had never had, mother and daughter. A lifetime of learning about the Gift, a lifetime of growing together, savoring the world and all its majesty, and its consequences.

Izzy smelled smoke. She heard the crackle of flames.

She heard her mother’s voice, which she would never hear in this life. It was sweet and deep.

“I named you Isabelle. They must have known, somehow, when they found you. They called you Isabella, but I left no records of who you were, or what to call you. No history. No trail.

“But I have loved you all these years, and I prayed to Jehanne to spare you from my burden.

“That is not to be.”

The figure shimmered with light. She was unimaginably beautiful.

Then it all started to blur. The figure dimmed. Izzy was losing the connection.

The figure stretched out her hands. The lilies floated out of her arms, tumbling in slow motion end over end.

“Oh, my darling, the other one is coming for you. You desperately need the power of the Patroness to see you through this. So let me go.”

She became dimmer, just a shadow, just a whisper…

 

Clutching Marianne’s hand, Izzy came back to herself. She licked her lips; her head was pounding.

She heard screaming in the hall and the women in the room began to panic anew in response, rushing toward the bed. One tripped on her gown; two others grabbed her under her arms and dragged her with them.

 

My gun.

The image of the Medusa filled her mind. She turned on her heel and ran into the OR, past Jean-Marc, yelling, “Where are his clothes?”

Before anyone could answer, she saw a clear plastic bag against the wall; it contained his tux. She raced over and plunged her hands inside the bag, feeling the bloody, ruined clothing for the shape of her revolver.

There.

She found it, pulled it out and opened the barrel. It contained six rounds.

She closed it and ran back into the chamber.

Andre had changed. Where a man had stood, a hunched, demonic creature covered with glossy black fur roared at les Femmes Blanches. Enormous teeth jutted from its elongated jaw as it clacked at the women. Its golden eyes gleamed.

A werewolf.

If she had had time to think about it, she would have been terrified. But it caught her eye and she saw intelligence there. She saw Andre there.

She said to it, “Allez. Vite.”

The werewolf fell into place beside her as she flew down the length of the chamber, yanked open the door and burst into the hall. It was clogged with smoke, fire and people running in all directions. She was shoved against the wall so hard she bounced back off it.

She grabbed the nearest person—a woman who resembled Annette to an astonishing degree—and said, “How do I get out of here?”

“You mustn’t! It’s you they’re after!” the woman cried, grabbing on to Izzy’s arm. “Oh, please, Guardienne, go back inside the chamber. We’ll try to save you.”

Izzy shook herself free and darted down the hall, using the same route she and Andre had taken. The werewolf followed close behind; she could feel the heat of his breath on the nape of her neck.

The service stairwell was jammed. She yelled, “Move it!” to the parade of people racing down the stairs, and when they didn’t comply, she hit and kicked and used the butt of her revolver to clear a path. Behind her, Andre howled with rage.

She had no idea how long she struggled; each stair step was a victory. Thick smoke rolled over her, obscuring her vision. Her lungs filled with smoke; her eyes watered and she could no longer see. Still she fought her way up, until she was nothing but a ropy, jangled piece of iron will.

She felt for a door and realized she had gone up one flight. Two more to go.

More people crashed into her. Someone said, “Good God, woman, have you lost your mind?” It was Mayor Gelineau. “Go back!”

She pushed him out of her way. Pushed them all out of her way as she inched her way up.

Where are you going? What are you doing? she asked herself. But she knew.

Then she reached the third floor and burst through the door.

“Your Majesty! Oh, my God, they’ve got Jesse!”

It was Ruthven, Sauvage’s boyfriend, buffeted by Bouvards as he ran toward her. Bouvards were swarming the ruined balcony; some carried conventional weapons—Glocks, Uzi’s, SIG-Sauers. White light erupted from their outstretched palms, ammo from their arsenal of technologically advanced death-dealing machines.

Izzy peered at Ruthven through the slits of her burning eyelids. Though his image was blurred, she could see his terror, his eyes huge, his face chalk-white.

“They’ve got her! Oh, God, save her!”

He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the edge of the verandah, where Bouvards threw spheres of white light at flapping shapes as they flew at the mansion. Vampire minions. As she watched, one of the horrible things glommed onto the chest of a woman in an evening gown, opened its jaws and bit into her face.

Izzy swayed, but she did not fall.

In the sky, the moon glowed scarlet; the clouds were clots.

Below a vast body of water shone damascene-black, silhouetted by broad trees draped with moss. A dozen shapes—three dozen, maybe a hundred—darted behind the trees, then lunged out from their shielding cover to throw brilliant purple-black spheres of energy at the mansion. Some of the shapes were men and some of them were things she couldn’t begin to describe. Deformed, misshapen. Some had enormous bald heads and protruding teeth; some were stark-white, like phantoms. The bursts of energy cast a strobe effect, adding to her confusion.

Then a ball of white light emanating from the mansion smashed into one of the trees, setting it ablaze. The shape behind it danced away, reveling in the mayhem; in the crackling black light, it—he—turned and faced Izzy’s vantage point square-on; and though she was some distance away, she saw a very familiar face.

Julius Esposito.

He smiled at her broadly and gave her a little wave. Then he snapped his fingers. She couldn’t hear the snap and yet it echoed strangely in her mind—as if in a dream.

Let me be dreaming.

The vampire she had seen in the voodoo ceremony in the City of the Dead dragged Sauvage forward by the hair. She struggled, batting at him; she may as well have been a ghost for the effect it had on him.

“Kill him! Save her!” Ruthven pleaded as the vampire thrust Sauvage at Esposito, who grabbed her around the neck and put a blade to her throat. Sauvage stood stock-still, weeping.

And Julius looked up at Izzy with such evil that her blood ran cold.

Izzy held up her palm; it was barely warm. Not even warm; that was just her wishful thinking—she had no magical energy at all.

A jag of lightning cracked the sky. Sudden hard rain sluiced down, pouring in heavy cascades as if from overfilled rain gutters. It was so thick Izzy could barely make out the nightmare tableau below her, as Sauvage remained frozen in the same unearthly position for another second. For two. Three.

Then Izzy remembered that she had another weapon. A powerful one.

She raised her gun, steadying her hand with her left palm, and held her breath. Her reality collapsed to a pinprick as she sighted down on Julius Esposito, her co-worker…and a death-dealing monster. What if the bullet killed Sauvage?

She had another bullet. She had five more.

I can’t, she thought.

And then an image filled her mind.

A girl, younger than she, astride a horse as she spoke to her troops in Medieval French. “Some of you will be sacrificed. I cannot help it. I beg your forgiveness now, while you are still alive.”

“Sauvage, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She wrapped her finger around the trigger.

At the same instant Andre leaped from the third-story verandah, his werewolf shape arcing into the night sky like a bullet himself. As he fell, he threw back his head and howled.

Through the forest, more howls raised, a chorus of rage and despair.

The movement and the noise startled Esposito. Sauvage took advantage and elbowed her captor hard in the stomach, and she collapsed to the ground and rolled away like a seasoned commando.

Izzy pulled the trigger.

Her bullet found its target, dead-on.

Esposito didn’t die the way a person dies. He exploded. In a blinding flash of purple light, he fragmented as if he had stepped on a grenade. Streams of black energy issued from a central point, rocketing in all directions like fireworks lighting up the sky.

Sauvage ran screaming toward the mansion as, everywhere, the white shapes threw back their heads, shrieked and collapsed. Down they went; the deformed things, the pale men; all of them, except the vampire, who somehow melted into the night.

Overwhelmed, Izzy fell forward onto her knees.

Around her, the Bouvards began cheering. They hugged each other, laughed, applauded.

Then hands raised her up above the heads of the survivors of the battle. Fire crackled and smoke rolled as she was carried the length of the verandah, looking down on the carnage that had been the enemy.

“Guardienne!” someone shouted.

It was taken up. “Guardienne! Guardienne! Isabelle, la Guardienne!”

“No,” she whispered. “Not me.”

But no one heard her…except perhaps, her mother.

New York

T he moon was a flickering, low-watt streetlamp threatening to go out any second. Sirens roared in the New York City jungle of burned-out tenements and rusted cars. Bottom-dwelling predators—dealers, pimps, ’kickers and gangbangers glided through the misery and poverty of the urban landscape surrounded by snowdrifts, garbage and needles.

It was the last hour of third watch, the end of Izzy DeMarco’s very first shift as an NYPD rookie. She and her field training officer, Patrolman Juan Torres, were escorting Sauvage, a young goth from Brooklyn, to her boyfriend’s place. The building was not very nice, but at least the graffiti on the bricks was random and crude, lacking the trademark tags claiming the building for some gang. Gang territory was worse news than basic low-rent squalor.

Sauvage had promised to stay here until the department located Izzy’s former coworker, Julius Esposito, and took him into custody. Sauvage had witnessed Esposito, who had worked with Izzy in the property room, shaking down a corner boy—a street dealer—for money and contraband. She hadn’t seen him commit murder, but Esposito was also wanted in connection with the possible homicide of Detective First Grade Jason Attebury, also of the Two-Seven.

Detective Pat Kittrell—what should Izzy call him, her lover? her boyfriend?—had argued that Izzy needed protective custody of her own. Although he had no concrete evidence to back up his case, Pat was sure Esposito was the shooter who had taken aim at Izzy’s father in a burning tenement fire—and missed. If he wanted one DeMarco dead, he might want two. Pat was furious when Izzy was assigned to escort Sauvage to a so-called safehouse, and he had half a mind to go to Captain Clancy and tell her so.

Torn between feeling flattered and patronized, Izzy had demanded that Pat stand down and back way off. The last thing she needed was a gold shield lecturing her boss about how to use a new hire.

I’m a cop. Finally. And I sure as hell knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

Besides, Sauvage had declared that Izzy was the only person in New York whom she trusted. With white makeup, black eyes and scarlet lips, costumed in her evil Tinkerbell finery—black-and-red bustier, lacy skirt and leggings topped by a pea coat, with combat boots sticking out underneath—Sauvage cut an exotic figure beside Izzy, who had on her brand-new NYPD blues. Izzy wore no makeup, and her riot of black corkscrew curls were knotted regulation-style, poking out from the back of her hat. Dark brows, flashing chestnut eyes, and unconcealed freckles danced across her small nose—Izzy had never aspired to fashion-model looks, but some men—okay, Pat—said she was a natural beauty. She didn’t know about that. But she did look exactly as she had imagined she would look in her uniform, and she was very proud.

“Okay, so where is your boyfriend?” Torres thundered at Sauvage as the three stamped their chilly feet on the stoop of the building. Izzy blew on her hands. She had forgotten her gloves. Torres had not. He was bundled up against the night air, and he had a few extra pounds of his own to keep himself warm. And onion breath. Their vehicle reeked of it.

Huffing, Sauvage jabbed the buzzer repeatedly with her blood-red fingernail. About ten minutes ago, back in the squad car, Sauvage had let her boyfriend, Ruthven, know they were on their way, and he’d assured her that he was in the apartment cooking her a big bowl of brown rice and veggies—with a supply of her favorite clove cigarettes at the ready.

“I don’t know why he’s not answering,” Sauvage muttered. “He is so dead.”

Let’s hope not, Izzy thought, a chill clenching her gut, but she remained silent.

From his jacket pocket, Torres handed Sauvage his cell phone and said, “Call him and tell him to get this door open ASAP.”

Sauvage obeyed, punching in numbers. She waited a moment, then looked up from the cell phone and said, “It’s not making any noise.”

Izzy’s anxiety level increased. She turned her head, surveying the street, tilting back her head as she scanned the grimy windows. A few of them had been boarded over.

“Try mine,” Izzy offered, pulling her Nokia out of her dark-blue coat and handing it to Sauvage. Meanwhile, Torres was depressing buttons on his cell phone as he exhaled his stinky onion breath, which curled like smoke around his face.

Sauvage took Izzy’s phone, punched in the number and murmured, “C’mon, c’mon” under her breath. She closed her kohl-rimmed eyes and pursed her blood-red lips as if she were trying to send her boyfriend a message via ESP.

“Nope,” she announced, shaking her head and holding the phone out to Izzy. “It doesn’t work, either.”

Izzy listened to the dead air and frowned.

Torres said, “I just called in. I’m not getting anything. Let’s go to pagers.”

They whipped them out. Nothing.

Torres announced, “I’m going to the car.”

He jogged about ten feet down the block to their squad car. After about half a minute, he was out of the car and looking in the trunk.

He came back with their twelve-gauge shotgun.

“Hijo de puta,” he groused. “Computer’s out. Radio phone’s not working, either.”

“How can that be?” Sauvage asked, sounding frightened. “You guys are the police. Your stuff is always supposed to work.”

A frisson shot up Izzy’s spine. This all seemed familiar in a way she could not define. The cold, the phones not working…

“I think we should get out of here,” she said. “Let’s take Sauvage to the precinct.”

“No, we can’t go,” Sauvage fretted, hunching her shoulders. She tapped the column of nameplates and jabbed the same button. “He’s here. We can buzz someone else who lives here and get them to let us in.” She ran her finger up and down the list. “Here’s a cool one—Linda Wilcox.”

“No,” Torres said. “It’s his place or we’re not going in.”

Izzy thought about arguing. Maybe something had happened to Ruthven. Something bad. Maybe it was happening right now. Ten—make that fifteen—minutes ago, he had been cooking something for his girlfriend to eat. Izzy sincerely doubted he’d left to go buy some more zucchini.

“I’m going across the street to call for backup,” Torres said.

There was a little mom-and-pop convenience store across the street, signs in the window for Colt 45, cigarettes and lotto tickets.

“Let’s go together,” Izzy suggested. “Something is seriously wrong.”

He said, “I’m only going across the street. You two should keep trying the buzzer.”

Then he split, taking full advantage of the lull in the oncoming traffic to jaywalk between parked cars.

Uneasy and cold, Izzy checked her watch again. Forty-eight minutes to go. She knew that Big Vince, her father, was counting each minute, too, waiting for her call to assure him that she had come through her first tour safe and sound. A veteran patrol officer, Big Vince hated that she had become a cop, which was exactly what she had predicted. He wanted his little girl safe and protected from the cold, harsh world, not out in it protecting others.

As soon as this detail was over, she’d phone Big Vince and assure him that he could go back to bed. Then she’d meet up with Pat, debrief, celebrate. Pat Kittrell, a detective second grade in the NYPD, was the man who had helped her fulfill her dream of becoming a cop. Encouraged her, supported her, even helped her overcome her phobia of guns.

He had bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate. They’d go to his place, pop the cork, toast…and then they would make love. As on edge as she was, her body became energized with the thought of his hands on her body, of how it felt when they started the dance. She could smell his musky scent, feel the smoothness of his lips, hear his voice whispering her name in her ear just before he slid into her warm and willing body.

“What is taking him, like, forever?” Sauvage asked Izzy, jolting her out of her reverie. Sauvage tap-danced against the pavement in her combat boots. “I don’t like this.”

Izzy didn’t either like it, either.

“Let’s check the store,” she said to Sauvage.

“Be careful of the ice,” Sauvage cautioned her, as she herself slipped and slid, grabbing Izzy’s hand.

When they reached the crosswalk, Izzy reached out to depress the pedestrian signal. As soon as she touched it, the streetlight above them flickered a few times and went out, casting them in relative darkness.

“What the—?” Sauvage muttered, gazing upward.

In the same instant, a black panel truck roared around the corner on the same side of the street as the convenience store and squealed up to the curb. Izzy yanked Sauvage back, hard. The front bumper missed Sauvage’s left knee by inches.

Izzy aimed her weapon as the passenger door burst open and a dark silhouette leaped out. She recognized the pomaded hair—Julius Esposito—just as he lunged at her and slammed something against her arm. There was a sharp, painful jolt.

Taser.

Her vision fragmented into gray, shiny dots and there was a scream out in the world or maybe that was the nerves in her ears going haywire. She began to convulse, and she hit the icy sidewalk hard, her arms and legs twitching. For a few forevers, everything shorted out. Then as she swam back, her head began to throb.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought.

It took her a while to wrap her right hand around the grip of her revolver and get to her feet. Her left ankle hurt worse than her head. Bad sprain.

The car was long gone, but Esposito was two blocks ahead of her, dragging Sauvage on foot down the street. She was shrieking and batting at him. Esposito didn’t pay her the slightest attention. Neither did the solitary man staggering drunkenly past them in a pair of earmuffs over a do-rag and a black Mets jacket.

Izzy shouted, “Stop! Police! Torres! Torres, get out here!”

Esposito was hustling out of her kill zone—too far away to shoot. And she might hit Sauvage or Mets.

She was surprised that Esposito had taken Sauvage.

Why didn’t he drag her into the truck and tell his wheelman to take off? Obviously, he wants me to follow him.

Great.

Her best bet was to sic her uninjured partner on him. The mom-and-pop loomed across the street like a journey of a thousand miles. It took her a supreme effort to walk, but she put her pain on hold as she started across the street. She was still holding her gun, but she let her arm drop to her side, concealing it from view.

A bell on the front door of the shop tinkled as she rushed inside. The store smelled of tobacco and floor cleaner, and the clerk, a short Asian man, leaned over the counter at the front and pointed toward the opposite end of the store.

He said, “He go into the alley.”

“Did he use your phone?” she asked, as she made her way down an aisle of canned lychee nuts and Japanese rice crackers. She spread her thumb and forefinger and held them against the side of her face like a phone. “Did he call the police?”

“No call,” the man informed her, shaking his head. “No working.” He held up his white portable unit as if to corroborate his testimony, and shrugged apologetically.

Why aren’t the phones working? What is going on?

“Try again. Call 911! Tell them officers are in pursuit, on foot. Perp armed and dangerous. And tell ’em all the radios are jammed up down here.”

“It no working,” the man insisted.

“Keep trying!” she bellowed.

She burst through the back door into the alley. There were Dumpsters and trash cans, but no Torres.

She whirled in a circle, shouting, “Torres! Damn it! Where are you?”

There was no answer.

Figuring he’d circled back around, she flew back through the store and burst outside again.

No Torres there, either.

Damn it, she thought.

Esposito had put a lot of distance between himself and her. Alone, without backup, she hobbled through East Harlem, one of the more impoverished neighborhoods in all of New York City. Fifth Avenue to the East River, Ninety-Sixth to One Hundred and Fifteenth Street. Night was a heavy lead weight slung across her shoulders, a sudden dumping of snow flurries slowing her pace as surely as the pain freezing up her ankle.

Esposito maintained at least a fifty-yard lead, despite the fact that he was dragging Sauvage and she was fighting him every step. The young goth’s black combat boots kept scooting out from underneath her on the icy sidewalk; now he was screaming at her over his shoulder and brandishing his gun. Izzy wondered how long Sauvage would be able to struggle. Beneath her pea coat, her black-and-red bustier must be constricting her breathing, and her skirts were wrapped around her legs like a shroud.

A handful of curious street people—“skels” in police parlance—materialized on door stoops and alley entrances to watch the excitement. She wondered if she should tell one of them to call for help. Probably the better course was for them not to know that she needed help.

She kept going.

Then a voice inside her head said, You need to hustle. You’re on point. She’s going to die.

And you’ll be next.

Izzy jerked, hard, and nearly fell. She knew that voice. It had whispered to her in her nightmares for over a decade, speaking in riddles, promising death. She’d gone to see a shrink about it; her father wanted her to talk to their priest.

But I’m awake, she thought. I’m awake and I’m hearing it.

She took her attention off Esposito and looked all around herself—at shadows and the icy falling snow.

“Who’s there?” she called.

Allez, vite, it told her. French, which she did not speak. But which she seemed to understand, if her dreams were any indication of her linguistic abilities. For the voice often spoke to her in French. And sometimes she woke herself up, responding aloud, also in French.

Hurry. Stop him. Or they’ll die. And it will be your fault.

Then a gun went off. Izzy ducked behind a row of newspaper dispensers. She felt no compression of air, heard no impact, no telltale ping of a casing. Had someone taken a potshot at her? More important, would they take another? Was that the deal—Esposito would lure her into the line of fire and someone else would gun her down?

She inched cautiously around the dispensers and started back up the street. Her mother’s gold filigree crucifix was wedged between her breasts, flattened by her brand-new Kevlar bulletproof vest. The facing on her polyester shirt itched against her sensitive skin. She was uncomfortable and she was scared and she was mad as hell.

She had no idea how she crossed the next block without being hit by oncoming traffic, but she did it. Then she saw Esposito and Sauvage at the end of the block, racing catty-corner to a high-rise tenement. On the upper floors, flames shot from blown-out windows, licking and curling at the pitted exterior. Smoke billowed like wavy hair from the roof.

Esposito darted inside.

She got to the curb and raced into the building, yelling “Fire!” She limp-ran past the long row of tenants’ brown metal mailboxes and raced down the carpeted hall. There was no smoke yet, and she smelled garbage, marijuana and urine.

“Fire! Call 911!” she bellowed, pounding her fist on the nearest door. She lurched past the cracked, peeling wall to the next door. “Fire! Get out now! Leave the building! The building’s on fire!”

Through an open door to her right, watery light blinked above a wooden staircase topped with an Art Deco rail. She stopped, cocking her head, and detected a distant shuffling noise—rapid footfalls on wood.

She gripped the rail with her left hand and pulled herself up the stairs, her Medusa pointed toward the ceiling. Her ankle screamed in protest.

At the second-story landing, she tried the doorknob that led into the hallway. It was locked. She didn’t know if that meant Esposito had gone in that way and locked it after himself, and she debated for an instant—force the door open, or go up another story?

She decided to stick with the stairway. If he wanted her to follow him, he wouldn’t throw obstacles in her path. He’d make it easy for her.

Just like Torres made it easy for him to attack me. Is he in on it? Where is he now?

Maybe Esposito’s objective was to make sure she died in the fire. Something about that tugged at her. Dying by fire. Dying in fire. That had something to do with her. With her heritage.

What heritage? I’m a second-generation cop and my brains have been scrambled by a stun gun, she thought. I don’t know anyone who’s died in a fire. I don’t even know any firefighters.

As she climbed, she heard people screaming, and she smelled thick, oily smoke. The fire was traveling rapidly to the lower floors.

On the third floor, the hallway door hung ajar. Beyond it, the hall lights were dim, smoke curling around the sconce directly across from her. Then she looked down and noticed a three-inch piece of black lace—from Sauvage’s skirt?—draped across the transom.

Izzy painfully bent down, picked it up and examined it. Had to be. The more important question was, was it Sauvage or Esposito who had left it there for her to find? Maybe Esposito was hiding behind that open door right now, waiting to blow her head off.

Her scalp prickled. Extending her Medusa with both hands, she kicked open the door and darted into the hallway, sweeping a circle. The hallway was filling with smoke. Apartment doors slammed open as the frightened occupants spilled out of their homes. They began running toward the front of the building—toward an elevator, Izzy feared—a very, very bad thing to do in a fire.

Breaking whatever cover she had left, Izzy shouted, “Stairs! Here!” and made broad gestures to get their attention. The three or four closest to her hurried over, and she waggled the flashlight toward the stairs, bellowing, “Move it! Get out now! Go down the stairs and go across the street! Call 911 when you get outside!”

If their phones would work.

She lurched toward the back. As the terrified civilians swarmed past her, she yelled, “This is the police! Stay calm! Walk to the stairs!”

As she moved in deeper, curls of smoke rolled toward her in waves. She snatched off her hat with her left hand and waved it in front of herself, trying to keep her vision clear. A tiny, wizened man with walnut-hued skin ran past her with a barking Chihuahua in his arms.

“Po-lice!” he yelled, smiling at Izzy. “Po-lice done come! Hallelujah!”

“Take the stairs,” she told him, gesturing behind herself. “Don’t take the elevator.”

He gave her a wink and said, “Oui, ma guardienne. Merci.”

Izzy jerked. What the hell? That seemed familiar too, being called ma guardienne. Part of her life.

She realized with a start that she had seen this hallway before, too. She looked to the left and spotted the fire extinguisher, just as she’d expected to see it in that location. There was the deep, jagged crack in the wall.

Her heart skipped beats as she remembered when and where she had seen it before:

In her vision in the restaurant.

At lunch she had watched her father as if by remote camera, only it was all in her mind. He was on a detail, walking along this exact same corridor—also during a fire. She had been sitting in a deli blocks away, but she had seen him as clearly as if she’d been there with him. She had known someone in the hall was raising a gun and taking aim, and she had shouted, “Hit the floor!”

In her head.

And Big Vince had heard her in his head, and obeyed. The shooter had missed, and her father had lived to tell the tale, labeling it a miracle from heaven.

Big Vince wasn’t here now, but if the rest of the vision held true, there was a perp hiding at a hallway intersection off to her right, his gun pointed at her skull—and she was certain now that it had been Esposito, and that he had lured her here so he could enact the same ritual execution he’d planned for her father.

She dove to the floor and rolled onto her side, aiming her gun at the appropriate angle, aware that there was no safety on a revolver, and the last thing she wanted to do was shoot an innocent bystander.

There! She saw movement…seconds before the sconce in the wall above her head went out. Now the intersection plunged into darkness, but she still knew there was definitely someone there.

She drew another breath, keeping her arms outstretched. Her muscles began to quiver with fatigue. Her Medusa was heavy, fully loaded with six cartridges in the cylinder…

No, there are five, the voice said in her head. You used it, remember?

She blinked. She hadn’t used it. If she had, she’d be facing hours of paperwork and at least a couple of Internal Affairs interviews. Discharging a weapon while on duty was a huge deal.

Despite the darkness, she glanced downward, in the direction of her gun. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in sheer terror as little sparks wicked off her hands.

I’m on fire! she thought, as she rolled over on her side. But she wasn’t in any pain. The sparks multiplied. She was glowing.

Then the light vanished, and she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. Maybe it was some kind of taser aftereffect.

A voice called, “Iz?” as a tall, rangy figure stepped from the smoke and shadows, into the light of the central corridor.

It was Pat. He was holding both a flashlight and a gun—a .357 Magnum. His deep-green eyes glittered in the soft yellow light that burnished the planes and hollows of his face.

“Jesus, Iz.” He set down the flashlight as he gathered her up with his left arm. “When I heard it was Esposito…”

“I’m okay,” she said as he laced his fingers through hers, easing her to her feet as he swept the area with his gun. “I don’t know where Torres is. Did he call it in?”

“Must have,” he said. “Captain Clancy told me to get my butt over here. She didn’t need to tell me twice.”

Her leg buckled as she put weight on her injured ankle, and he kept her from falling, his face creasing with concern.

“I’m okay,” she said again, then realized that she had to be honest about her injury. They were on a mission. She confessed, “My ankle’s sprained. It hurts.”

“You stay here, then,” he ordered her as he retrieved his flashlight and clicked it off—a wise precaution, one she would have taken herself.

“No way,” she insisted, coughing as the smoke seeped back into her lungs. “I think he took her toward the back.”

He gazed at her and shook his head. “Don’t go all Jane Wayne on me, Officer. I’m getting you out of here.”

“He wants me to follow him. If I don’t take the bait, he might shoot her,” she argued.

With the stern expression of a detective who could make hardened gangbangers break down and cry after ten minutes in an interview room, Pat said, “You’re out, Iz. I’m on it.”

Coughing harder, she fanned the smoke away from them both with her hat.

“She’s on my watch,” Izzy insisted. “I’m thinking the fire escape. Let’s go.”

As she stepped forward, there was a loud ripping noise overhead. She gazed up, just as an enormous section of the ceiling dislodged and crashed to the floor. The impact threw her into Pat’s arms and he dragged her along the hallway as another section cracked free and smashed inches from her back.

An illuminated Exit sign buzzed and winked about ten feet ahead of them. Pat reached it first and pressed his hand on the metal door beneath it.

“It’s cool,” he reported. Meaning that there was no fire on the other side. Then he yanked it open.

Their feet clanged on metal; they had reached the fire escape, a metal rectangle from which ladderlike stairs angled upward and downward. Reflexively, they both looked up. Far above them, flames danced on the roof.

Then an eerie purplish-black light bloomed from below and streaked toward them like a missile. They both dropped to the floor of the fire escape; as it bobbed dangerously, the black light exploded against the open door and tore it off its hinges.

Bricks broke and flew outward; Pat threw himself on top of Izzy and bellowed, “Cover your head!”

A fragment of brick pelted her forearm. She heard a shower of pieces ringing against the metal floor. Pat grunted.

“Are you hurt?” she cried.

“No, I’m okay.” He gripped her shoulders. “Stay down. Here comes another one.”

“What’s going on?” she demanded, trying to jerk up her head. But Pat was in the way.

“It’s Le Fils,” he said into her ear. His breath was moist and warm. “Esposito’s down there, too. They’re attacking, and they have Sauvage.”

“Le Fils?” Izzy suddenly felt very dizzy. The world canted left, right, as if the fire escape had pulled from the building and was swinging freely. Le Fils, Le Fils…

It was all there, in an instant. Everything they were doing right now could not be happening. If Le Fils was down there, they could not be in New York. And she had never told Pat about Le Fils. Le Fils du Diable—the Son of the Devil—was the king vampire of New Orleans, terrorizing both Gifted and Ungifted alike. She hadn’t known about Le Fils until the day she had left New York…

Oh, my God. I left New York. I never went to the Police Academy. I’m not NYPD.

She felt another wave of vertigo.

The floor beneath them was not metal. It was wood. As Pat shifted his weight, she lifted her swirling head and saw men in tuxedos and women in gowns rushing past the two of them. A leathery creature in a hood bobbed past. It had been at the dinner, when Jean-Marc had presented her to the family.

Jean-Marc…where is Jean-Marc?

Another explosion rocked the floor. She smelled smoke. She heard screaming.

“Let me up,” she woozily ordered Pat.

“No, stay down, darlin’,” he told her. Pat’s face was backlit by a shimmering curtain of blue. The curtain darkened with purple; then another bolt of purple-black burst through and hit the white wooden wall behind them. “He’s attacking.”

He already did attack. Le Fils and his accomplice, Julius Esposito the voodoo bokor, attacked us last night. Here, in New Orleans. Why is it happening again? This is more than a dream. Is this a vision?

With a burst of strength born of determination, she forced his weight off her body and slowly got to her feet.

Surrounded by familiar faces, some standing still as white light poured from their palms, others rushing through the chaos, she and Pat stood on the verandah of the de Bouvard mansion on the outskirts of the bayou—her blood family’s home for nearly three hundred years. She was not wearing her police uniform, but the white satin gown embroidered with flames on the bodice she had worn at her presentation.

The flame-shaped brand in her left palm glowed and pulsed, and she remembered the rest: she was no longer simply Izzy DeMarco; she was Isabella Celestina DeMarco de Bouvard, the daughter of the flames. Her biological mother, Marianne, the guardienne and titular protector of this House, lay downstairs in a coma.

And this was her battle.

Around her neck, Izzy wore protective talismans: the rose quartz necklace Sauvage had given her, and the chicken-foot gris-gris of Andre the werewolf.

Andre…Jean-Marc… She looked for the Cajun werewolf and Jean-Marc, the passionate magic user who had tracked her down and brought her here from New York. The men who should be here. She searched the throng for Sange, the elegant vampire. She saw none of them.

She reached out a hand to Pat and said, “You’re not supposed to be here. You need to go inside.”

“No way,” he replied. Then his sea-green eyes widened and his lips parted in a silent grimace. Silently, he sank to his knees and fell forward, hard, onto his face.

The back of his jacket was shredded, and blood gushed from an entry wound.

“Oh, my God, Pat!” she cried. She placed one hand over the other and pushed to stem the geyser of blood. It was spraying her face. Pat’s blood was spraying her face!

“Officer down!” she yelled. “Officer down! I need assistance!”

No one seemed to hear her. Nor even see her.

You’re on point, said the voice inside her head. Get up and kill Esposito. Do it. Now. Or others will die, and this House will fall.

In a daze, Izzy stared down at Pat. His head was twisted to one side; his eyes were fluttering shut, and his face was a deathly white.

“This isn’t happening,” she whispered. “This can’t be happening!”

But it was happening.

Do it.

“I’m not leaving him,” she said aloud, putting her arms around his broad shoulders. He was gasping like a beached sea creature. His lips were cyanotic.

Shoot Esposito or everyone will die.

“I won’t leave you,” Izzy promised Pat, as she burst into hoarse, wild wails. “Pat! I won’t leave you!”

P at can’t be dead. He shouldn’t even be here. He can’t be dead….

“Oh, my God, he bit me, didn’t he! That freakin’ vampire bit me!” Sauvage cried.

Izzy jerked awake, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sauvage, in her red-and-black goth attire, was sitting about five feet away on a white plastic chair in the corner of the OR, which was located in the lower depths of the House of the Flames. Ruthven, her boyfriend, knelt before her in black leather pants and a black T-shirt, scrutinizing every inch of her exposed flesh for vampire bites.

“Pat,” she whispered, knowing already that he wasn’t there. That he wasn’t dead. It had been a horrible nightmare—horribly real, but just a nightmare—one of the many that had plagued her of late. New York, Sauvage and Torres, Pat and the apartment building—all that had been a dream—or perhaps another vision of things to come. Since arriving in New Orleans, she had been plagued by dreams and visions. But Sauvage had definitely never been in protective custody, and Esposito had never dragged her through the streets of East Harlem.

But last night, on the verandah, Izzy had shot and killed Esposito. In the melee, Esposito had been about to slit Sauvage’s throat. Izzy had taken aim, and with one clear shot from her Medusa revolver—an enchanted .9 mm cartridge—she had shot him in the chest.

And he had burst into purple fireworks.

He exploded. Thinking of that, seeing it again in her mind, Izzy trembled. Two weeks ago people in her world didn’t die like that; there were no mansions filled with people with magical powers or werewolves or vampires.

Two weeks ago her world had been the borough of Brooklyn, where she lived in a row house with her father and worked as a civilian in the property room of the Two-Seven. Gino, her brother, was studying to be a priest in a seminary in Connecticut. And the little family of three had shared the memory of her beloved mother, Anna Maria DeMarco, who had been dead for ten years.

And then the real nightmare had begun. Izzy had learned that she had magical powers, and that she was the missing heiress of the ancient French magic-using family, the de Bouvards—the House of the Flames. Jean-Marc de Devereaux des Ombres, Regent of the Flames, had saved her life, told her who she was and brought her here, to New Orleans, to take over leadership of her family.

Now Jean-Marc lay a few feet from her on an operating table, hovering someplace midway between life and death. He, not Pat, had been badly wounded during the battle.

“Patient’s BP still in the basement,” someone muttered at the OR table. They moved inside a magical sterile field of white light. Within it, everyone was dressed in white—white scrubs for the surgical team and white gowns and veils for the Femmes Blanches, the legendary de Bouvard healing women, who were as silent as ghosts as they held each other’s hands. The two women on the ends of their line clasped Jean-Marc’s hands as well. They were transferring their magical energy to him.

As the surgeon shifted to the left, Izzy caught sight of Jean-Marc’s sharp profile, and she drew in a sharp breath at the instant, riveting rush of…intensity overtaking her. Jean-Marc had searched for her for three years, and once he had found her, a link—physical, emotional, magical—had formed between them. One touch, one smoldering look, reduced her to a fine trembling. Her engulfing attraction to him frightened her.

And then there was Pat. When Jean-Marc had barreled into Izzy’s life, she had only just built up the nerve to ask Pat over for dinner. Pat had been interested in her for months, but he had given her all the time she needed to respond to his patient, easygoing flirtation. It was the lack of pressure she savored most; he was a little older than she was, more seasoned, less inclined to see each opportunity that came his way as the last one he would ever have. He respected her boundaries. He never challenged her need to go slow.

Before she left New York, fleeing for her life, she had slept with Pat. In some ways, it had been too soon in their relationship for sex. But Jean-Marc himself had explained that for magic users like themselves—known in their world as the Gifted—sex magic was the strongest type of spell they could employ. He had gone so far as to suggest that she go to bed with Pat, to protect him from harm.

Death was all around them, people she cared about going down; Izzy had done it…and making love with Pat had rocked her to her foundations. Never in her life had she experienced such transforming pleasure, felt such joy and completion. She had seduced Pat to protect him, but her Texas cowboy had claimed her as surely as if he had roped and branded her. Pat was in her heart now.

And yet, when she gazed at the unconscious man on the operating table, she knew that if Jean-Marc woke up, she would have to face a decision. Pat was Ungifted—not a magic user—and he was back in New York, watched over by Captain Clancy herself, who knew the score. Izzy had no idea what was going to happen to her old life—could she go back? If so, when? Would Pat wait? When he found out who and what she was, would he want to?

Or did her heart’s destiny end in the path that led to Jean-Marc? He was her mentor, her guardian. She thought she felt his heart beating inside her own chest. Closing her eyes, she smelled the roses and oranges that signaled his working a spell of protection and comfort around her. She half-suspected that if he did die—and she could hardly bear to even think of it—their link would survive the grave.

Jean-Marc, she sent out to him, I still need you here. You can’t go. You can’t die.

She felt a tiny flutter against her mind. She gasped and shut her eyes, waiting for words, for thoughts, for heartbeats.

It came:

Isabelle.

Her throat closed up with emotion as she replied, N’as pas de peur. Je suis ici. Don’t be afraid. I am here.

She waited hungrily for more, listening to the shorthand of the surgical team, watching as they combined traditional medicine with strange magical incantations, powders and objects—crystals, a ritual knife called an athame and candles. Unmoving, the fully veiled Femmes Blanches held his hands through it all.

Then the surgeon sighed heavily, and the women bowed their heads.

“Oh, my God, what’s happening?” Izzy asked, half rising from her chair.

The doctor looked at her over his shoulder. “Please, madame, stay where you are. We’re doing the best we can.”

Retaining her seat, she pursed her lips and fists together. The best had not saved her mother. Marianne had flatlined, and nothing they had tried had restored her brain activity. She remained technically alive, but only technically.

Izzy kept vigil, willing a better outcome for Jean-Marc.

Michel de Bouvard, Izzy’s liaison to the House of the Flames, poked his head in, saw Izzy and entered. He was still wearing his tux from the dinner. Coming up beside her, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched the medical team for a few moments before he asked, “How’s he doing?”

She wiped fresh tears from her cheeks. She’d been crying without knowing it. As steadily as she could, she replied, “He’s still alive.”

Michel wore a poker face as he took that in. Then he looked—really looked—at her and said, “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. Let’s debrief,” she said tersely.

He held up his fingers as if to enumerate the facts of their situation. “Le Fils got away.”

“Right.”

“Andre is still missing.”

Aside from Jean-Marc, the werewolf was her strongest ally in this strange new world of passion and deceit. “Could he have survived that jump off the verandah?” she asked hopefully.

Cocking his head, he raised a brow. “A leap off the third story? I don’t know. Maybe. He gave you his gris-gris, so he didn’t have that protection with him when he jumped. I assume Jean-Marc made talismans for him, so they would help. And werewolves are uncommonly strong and quick to heal,” he added. “Like us.”

She filed that away, wondering if “us” meant all Gifted individuals or just Bouvards. She wanted Jean-Marc to be quick to heal. She wanted him healed now.

“What about Alain?” That was Jean-Marc’s cousin. He had been MIA since before Izzy’s private jet had landed. Jean-Marc had been terribly worried, sending two security details to search for him.

“Still missing.” His voice was flat, as if he was attempting to sound neutral. She knew Michel detested Jean-Marc; she had to assume he had no love for Alain de Devereaux as well. Was Michel involved in his disappearance?

“What are you doing to locate him?” she asked.

“We’re scouring the battlefield for residue,” he said. “And I sent out an additional search party. We’ve got one in the swamp and two in the city—one in the Garden District and one in the French Quarter.”

“Residue,” she said.

“Emanations,” he explained. “We may be able to read them for clues.”

She still didn’t fully understand, but she said, “Maybe I could help.”

“Madame, please leave these things to us. You need to meet with Gelineau, Broussard and Jackson.” They were the de Bouvards’ Ungifted allies: the mayor of New Orleans, the superintendent of police, and the governor of the state of Louisiana. “You should include Sange as well.” She was the elegant vampire with whom the House of the Flames had forged an alliance.

He took a breath and reached into his left pants pocket. “And you should put this on.”

He opened his hand, revealing the gold signet ring that was the symbol of authority for the House of the Flames. According to Jean-Marc, it was nearly seven hundred years old.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded, flushing with anger. Jean-Marc had been wearing it the last time she had seen it.

“I took it when they stripped him for surgery,” he replied guilelessly. “A reasonable precaution, given its value.”

Did she dare accept it from his hand? According to both Jean-Marc and Michel, innumerable factions sought to place their own woman—or man—on the throne. Jean-Marc spoke of assassination attempts on his own life, and the regent before him might have been murdered. For all Izzy knew, putting on that ring might be signing her own death warrant.

Where would it leave Jean-Marc? If she wore the ring, did that signify the end of his term of service? So many Bouvards hated him for ruling in her mother’s name. He was a Devereaux, an outsider, and though the Grand Covenate, the supreme governing body of the Gifted world, had arranged for his service as regent, the Bouvards had resented his presence from the start.

I don’t know what I’m doing, Izzy thought. She shut her eyes tightly and prayed to St. Joan, the patronesse of the House of the Flames, known to the Bouvards by her French name, Jehanne.

Jehanne, aidez-moi. Je vous en prie. Jehanne, help me. I petition you.

She heard no answer, felt no guiding intuition. She didn’t hear the voice that often counseled and directed her, which had sounded so clear and real in her dream.

“You must take it,” Michel insisted, extending his hand palm up. “I can’t wear it.”

With trembling fingers, Izzy closed her fist around it. It was much heavier than she had anticipated. She turned over her hand and opened her fingers, tracing the dime-shaped circle etched with flames surrounding a B for Bouvard. Then she clutched it in her fist again as she unclasped the gold crucifix that had belonged to Anna Maria DeMarco—the woman she had always believed to be her mother—in preparation for sliding the ring onto the chain.

Michel stopped her with a shake of his head. He said, “We have an agreement with Sange that no one wears crucifixes in the mansion. If you put the ring on that chain, she will be highly insulted. We can’t afford to alienate her.”

The rose quartz necklace Sauvage had made for her also hung from Izzy’s neck. She pointedly reclasped her crucifix—continuing to wear it—and unfastened the string of pale pink quartz. Then she slipped the ring onto the beaded necklace and reconnected the clasp.

A sudden burst of warmth pressed against the satin of her gown. She looked down to see a white nimbus of magical energy emanating from the ring.

Michel de Bouvard sank on one knee, lowering his head as he whispered, “Ma guardienne.”

“I’m not the guardienne yet,” Izzy protested, as the light faded.

“You’re the closest thing we have,” he replied. His voice was softer, more deferential.

“Now we should go to the private meeting room upstairs,” he continued, rising. “I’ll let the governor and the others know you’re ready to meet with them. Jean-Marc and Alain both have assistants, of course. You should talk to them, as well. They’re very upset.”

“No.” She crossed her arms and stood rooted to the spot. “Tell everyone to come down here,” she said. “I’m not leaving my mother and the regent alone.” Marianne lay in her bed of state in the chamber beyond the OR.

Michel blinked, obviously taken aback.

“Devereaux and your mother are not alone.”

“Without me, they may as well be,” she retorted.

“Madame, these are healers,” he reminded her as he opened wide his arm, taking in the other people in the OR. “They honor the code of ethics of healers everywhere—First Do No harm.”

Harm was open to interpretation. One of those healers might decide that allowing Jean-Marc to live would harm the House of the Flames. Or that snuffing out Marianne’s life once and for all might help it.

Izzy clasped the ring dangling from the necklace, its warmth seeping into her bones. She narrowed her eyes a fraction and said, “They’ll come down here or there will be no meeting.”

She caught his answering grimace and handily ignored it. Back in New York, in the Two-Seven’s prop cage, she had blown off the wheedling and blustering of career police officers and detectives who wanted her to bend the rules in order to make their lives easier. No amount of pressure had ever succeeded in getting Izzy to violate procedure.

Here and now she had no set of protocols for what was happening. She couldn’t play it by the book, because there was no book. But she could stand up to Michel de Bouvard and make her decisions stick.

“They come to me,” she said again.

“We’re in a precarious position,” he reminded her. “Now that Le Fils has dared to attack us, the Ungifted will consider us too weak to protect them against the supernaturals in this region.”

Maybe they are too weak, Izzy thought, then corrected herself: Maybe we are too weak.

“You need to be seen,” he continued. “I agreed that we would keep the regent’s condition a secret on a need-to-know basis, but you don’t have the luxury of seclusion. The people have got to know that you’re all right.”

“Then bring a contingent down here to meet with me,” she reiterated. “Would my mother jump if the governor told her to?”

“I have no idea,” he replied harshly. “Your mother’s been in a coma for twenty-six years.”

“You’re out of line,” Izzy said.

“I’m not!” he shouted. Heads turned. More quietly he said, “I’m not. We’re in an emergency situation. Our chain of command puts me in charge after Jean-Marc. But you’re here now, and I’m trying to steer you to the best course of action.”

Her lips parted, but she let him continue. He needed to get this off his chest, and she needed to know where he stood.

“Let’s not mince words,” he said. “I honor your status. I truly do. I’m loyal to you. But you just got here, and you don’t know anything, and we’re practically at war, and not just with Le Fils. I don’t how to explain to you just how tenuous our association with the Ungifted is right now.”

“Got it,” she said.

“So you need to reassure them. Or they’ll abandon their treaty with us.”

“Will they do that today?” she asked him. “Abandon the treaty?”

He shifted his weight as if he didn’t want to answer. “Doubtful,” he admitted. “But with each hour that passes without a meeting, it’ll take that much more handholding to reassure them that we’re still in the game.”

“I’m more than willing to meet them,” she said. “But they have to come down here.”

“All right,” Michel said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As he turned to go, a deep bass gong thrummed through the air. Izzy felt its vibration in the bones of her bare feet.

Sequestered in her corner, Sauvage threw her arms around Ruthven and cried, “We’re being attacked again!”

Michel closed his eyes, opened them again. He said, “Field agents. And the executive staff. I think they’ve found something.”

“I’ll go with you to the door,” Izzy told him.

She crossed to her chair and picked up her shoes, stepping into them. The clack of her heels provided a counterpoint to the silent tension in the room.

They went out of the OR and into the monitoring room, where the techs watched the readouts of her mother’s life-support machines. Then they went out of that room to the main chamber. The room was dominated by her mother’s elaborate gilt bed. Izzy gazed tenderly at her as they passed. She looked like Izzy—an oval face with freckles across the nose, framed with long, black ringlets. In fact, she looked younger. She had only been twenty when she’d fallen into the coma; Jean-Marc had told Izzy that Gifted aged more slowly than Ungifted. He had assumed that now that her powers had awakened, her own aging process would decelerate, and maybe even reverse.

They walked down the center aisle of the chamber. The Femmes Blanches sat in two rows on either side, hands joined, holding Marianne’s hands.

Michael opened the chamber door.

A man and a woman in black suits and headsets stood on the other side. The male security agent cradled a two-foot-by-two-foot matte gray container with silver fittings against his chest.

Three other people stood in the hallway, well away from the agents. One was a young, dark-haired woman in a sleek business suit adorned with a flames pin identical to the one Michel wore on his lapel. Two men, one in his midtwenties and one middle-aged, also wore suits and pins.

When they saw Izzy, they bowed. She inclined her head.

“Oui?” Michel queried. “Did you find something?”

“Oui,” the female agent replied, her eyes bright with excitement. She gestured to the container. “We have some readable fragments of the bokor himself.”

“Of Esposito?” Michel asked, his voice rising with excitement.

“Oui,” she replied proudly. The man holding the container smiled.

“Wonderful work,” Michel said.

Izzy parsed the conversation. “Fragments? Are we talking residue?”

“Oui, madame,” Michel affirmed, smiling. “Robert and Louise are two of our best. If they say they’re readable, that means we can get some useful information off them.”

“Readable,” she echoed slowly. “As in psychometry?”

“Yes,” he said. “And we’ll—”

“Psychometry,” she continued, “which I’m apparently good at.” Her training with Jean-Marc had proven that.

His knit his brows and pursed his lips. “I appreciate your offer to help, but this is new to you, and this will be difficult and grisly work.”

“I want to be there,” she insisted.

“You are irreplaceable, and this reading could be dangerous. Esposito was working with very powerful spirits. I’m sure that if Jean-Marc were here—”

“Jean-Marc is here,” she corrected him. But she wondered if he knew something that she didn’t, if Gifted died differently from other people and he knew Jean-Marc would not be back.

“Please, madame, how is the regent?” the middle-aged man asked, stepping forward. “I’m Simon, his assistant. This is Pierre, Alain’s assistant.”

“Sophie is my assistant,” Michel added, gesturing to the woman.

“Any news?” Pierre asked.

Izzy said, “The regent is still in surgery. Alain is still missing. Perhaps we’ll learn more from reading the fragments.” She gave Michel a look. “So let’s get it done.”

“You just agreed to a meeting,” he argued.

“After.”

“Please,” Michel pled. “This will be very unpleasant.”

She shrugged. “It’s like forensics, right? We examine bone fragments, bits of tissue…and we learn things from their vibrations. Or something.”

He blinked. “No, madame, it’s not like that at all.” He shook his head. “It’s…horrible.”

Great.

“No problem,” she told him. “Let’s do it.”

W hy did everything have to be so complicated?

“I repeat, madame,” Louise said in the hall outside Izzy’s mother’s chamber, “it would seriously jeopardize both Marianne and the regent to bring Esposito’s remains inside the chamber. They’re psychically toxic.”

So she was back to trusting the doctors and the Femmes Blanches to do no harm.

“We need to take them to the reading chamber, and we need to do it now,” Robert said. “They won’t keep their integrity long.”

She exhaled. “All right. Let’s go to the reading chamber, then.”

The two security agents looked at Michel. He gave his head a tense little nod, and the quartet walked away. The assistants had not asked to come with them, and appeared to be more than happy to let them leave without them.

Izzy and company used the service stairway. The descent was shadowy and narrow. Izzy’s shoulder brushed musty-smelling brickwork; she felt claustrophobic and scared.

Robert, Louise and Michel chanted beneath their breaths; everyone in the party, including Izzy, glowed with white light. Michel’s forehead was beaded with sweat as if the effort were costing him dearly.

“This is a protective shield of light, like armor,” he told her. “In time, one hopes you will be able to create one for yourself. It’s a fairly basic skill for us.”

“I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it,” she replied, wondering if he was trying to insult her or cow her. She stood next in line to rule over them like a queen, and everyone she had met so far was appalled at her ignorance and lack of skills.

After two more flights of stairs, they were in complete darkness. She felt a breeze against her face and heard the squeal of metal on metal. Chains clanked. A chill ran down her spine. Were they going into a dungeon?

Footsteps echoed against what might have been the walls of a cavern, and Izzy could make out the shapes of the two agents and Michel in front of her.

As she followed Michel, a stab of pain cut across the arch of first her right foot and then her left. On the floor, a line glowed with icy white light.

“A ward,” Michel informed her. “Very powerful.”

A door behind her slammed shut, the sound ricocheting around her. Light flared and flames undulated from the tips of torches set into each point of the white stone walls of an octagonal room. They revealed the mosaic floor beneath her feet, tiled in the familiar design of the head of a short-haired woman surrounded by a halo. Jehanne d’Arc, the patroness.

A figure walked from the shadows. It was six feet tall, dressed in a hooded, satin white robe that concealed its face and body. Its hands were moving inside the hood, and she nearly burst into giddy hysteria when she realized it was taking off a pair of earphones attached to an iPod dangling from its neck.

Her amusement died away when she saw its hands—they were leathery purple claws ending in sharp talons. Devilish, to her Catholic eyes.

“Bienvenue,” it said in a hollow, rasping voice.

“May I introduce you to Felix D’Artagnon,” Michel said. The creature bowed low. “D’Artagnon is one of a clan of gremlins who has allied himself with our Family, in much the same way as Madame Sange.”

“Madame la Guardienne,” D’Artagnon intoned.

“I’m Marianne’s daughter,” Izzy insisted.

Michel continued, “Gremlin is a general term for a class of beings that aren’t human but also aren’t demon. We don’t deal with demons.” His voice tightened. “It’s forbidden, and it’s punishable by death.”

“Got it,” Izzy said.

“Monsieur D’Artagnon and his clan are allied with us. They had a falling out with the Malchances about a century ago, and we…assisted them with sorting that out.”

D’Artagnon nodded.

“The Malchances. They’re not our favorite people,” Izzy observed.

“No,” Michel replied. “They’re not.”

D’Artagnon led the way toward a long stone altar in the dead center of the room. Now-familiar objects sat on the altar—a marble vase containing a lily, and a white candle floating in an alabaster bowl before a foot-tall statue of Joan of Arc. The Flames’ color was white, the symbol of purity. Above the altar, a chandelier encrusted with opals and moonstones held wax candles that gave off flickering, watery light.

There was no statue of Jean-Marc’s patron, the Gray King, nor of anything blue, which was the color of the Devereaux family. Of the three altars she had seen, this was the first without Devereaux symbols. Were they being written off? Seen as no longer relevant by the House of the Flames?

Izzy stood a few feet back with Michel and D’Artagnon while Robert slid the box onto the stone surface of the altar. As he retreated, he stumbled badly.

Louise caught him, grunting, “Hang in, Bob.” She said to Michel, “He’s had direct contact with the fragments, sir.”

“Then get him out of here,” Michel said. “Check in with me later.”

Izzy said to them, “Thank you for putting yourselves in harm’s way for the good of the Family.”

“Merci, Guardienne,” Robert answered softly.

The two headed for the door. Once it had shut behind them, D’Artagnon moved to a low wooden table at one of the points of the octagonal room. He picked up a cardboard box of Latex gloves identical to the ones Izzy wore on the job in the property room at the Two-Seven.

“Madame et moi aussi,” Michel told D’Artagnon, indicating the box.

D’Artagnon used his talons to rip open the box and began pulling out gloves, offering a wad to Michel. As Michel separated them into pairs and held one set out to Izzy, he added, “As you know, we suspect the Malchances are the real forces behind this attack. We do know they’ve been recruiting disaffected members of our own family.”

She waited a beat. “To…?”

“To overthrow the rightful bloodline,” he replied, as if it should be obvious. He waggled the gloves at her. “You.”

She took the gloves and inserted her fingers into the left one as Michel did the same. Then Michel crossed to the right, standing before the wall, and moved one hand in a circle. A door appeared and opened. Inside, several white robes, shimmering with appliqués of flames, hung from a wooden rod on wooden hangers. They looked similar, but not identical, to D’Artagnon’s. Michel snapped his fingers, and two of the robes detached from the rod, floating toward him on their hangers.

He snapped his fingers a second time, and the door, the rod and the hangers disappeared.

The robes magically settled on his and Izzy’s bodies. The robe weighed several pounds, and she wondered if it was actually some kind of body armor.

“If you please,” Michel said, reaching backward and pulling a hood over his hair.

Izzy did the same. She smelled lavender, and she was very warm.

Michel said to the gremlin, “Let’s begin.”

Raising their hands like scrubbed-in surgeons, he and D’Artagnon faced the altar. They took deep breaths, centering themselves; Izzy did the same, trying to let go of all the chatter in her brain—her anxiety, her fear. The smell of candle wax overlaid something more odious; she caught a whiff of a terrible stench and figured it was coming from the box. It did nothing to make her feel better.

D’Artagnon said something in French. Michel replied, then translated, “He’s worried about your being here. I told him you insisted.”

She looked from him to D’Artagnon, whose face was still hidden. He creeped her out. All of this creeped her out. “I’m staying,” she said to him.

D’Artagnon inclined his robed head. “S’il vous plait, Madame la Guardienne.”

“D’accord. Then do as we do, please,” Michel said. “Do not depart from our ritual.”

He and the gremlin extended their arms and began another chant. Izzy copied them, spreading her arms wide and trying to follow the singsong words, which they repeated in a complex pattern.

The chant seemed to go on endlessly, the stench to increase. A thin layer of something white appeared along the floor.

Michel said, “Don’t be alarmed. It’s for protection.”

It was a mist. It curled around her ankles, cool as whipped cream, smelling of lavender. It billowed up to her knees and grazed her hips, then it rushed all the way up to her chest. As it rose to the level of her chin, she backed out of it, although Michel and D’Artagnon remained inside, breathing deeply.

“It’s all right,” Michel said. “Come back in, please.”

She knew Michel would probably be happy if she bailed. But she stepped back into the fog, closing her eyes, and took an exploratory breath.

Despite the coolness of the vapor, it felt warm as it entered her body; it was soothing, like deep-heat rub on a sore joint. She exhaled and took another breath. The gentle lavender scent filled her nose. With a pang, she thought of the mingled fragrance of roses and oranges that had often accompanied Jean-Marc’s soothing spells. Would she ever smell it again?

Michel snapped his fingers, and she started, opening her eyes.

The mist thinned and drifted back toward the floor, condensing into puddles. The atmosphere grew darker, the room, cooler. The shadows themselves seemed braced for whatever came next.

Michael and the gremlin clapped their hands three times, bowed low and knelt on both knees on dry sections of the floor. Izzy’s stomach constricted as she knelt, too, and a cold chill washed over her. She trembled, hard.

“You’re sure you want to do this,” Michel said. “Once we begin, we can’t stop.”

“Yes.” Her voice broke. “I’m sure.”

“Et voilà,” Michel said.

She and Michel began to glow again. On the altar, the lid of the white container popped open like a jack-in-the-box. From the interior, a curl of bruise-colored smoke drifted toward the ceiling. Another followed, roiling, billowing and folding in on itself.

“This is concentrated evil,” Michel informed her. “Please keep your distance until we take care of it.”

“Not a problem,” she muttered.

Enveloped in white light, he got to his feet and pulled an object from inside his robe. It was a golden athame encrusted with opals. Holding it like a switchblade, he cautiously approached the altar, as if the smoke were a wild animal that could spring at any time.

D’Artagnon also pulled an athame from his robe, his made of some sort of ebony material and free of decoration. Whispering another chant, the two arced their arms over their heads—Izzy saw D’Artagnon’s long, scaly arm—then whipped them downward and began slicing at the smoke. Wherever their knives connected, the smoke solidified into chunks, which then crashed to the floor. The chunks glowed like embers, then sputtered out.

After a few minutes, no more smoke poured out of the box. The floor was littered with purplish-black briquettes that reeked of decomposition, overpowering the lavender scent.

Panting, both Michel and D’Artagnon lowered their arms to their sides. Michel said to Izzy, “Please come to the altar, but don’t touch any of that. It’s still very powerful stuff.”

I’m glad I put my shoes back on, she thought as she cautiously tiptoed on the balls of her feet to his side.

Michel and D’Artagnon genuflected to the altar. She had seen Jean-Marc do the same at any magical altar he encountered. For the first time since her journey into the world of the Gifted had begun, Izzy did, too.

God forgive me, she prayed, feeling blasphemous.

Holding their athames overhead like flashlights, Michel and D’Artagnon approached the box. After a moment’s hesitation, Izzy approached, as well. She didn’t have the athame Jean-Marc had made for her, and she had no idea where it was.

Weaponless, she looked inside.

The container was filled with a black, throbbing mass of goolike substance that stank like rotten meat. She covered her mouth and her eyes watered.

This is what’s left of Julius Esposito? Had he even been human?

As she watched, the center section of the jelly moved, breaking apart, and in the indentation, a round, human-size eye with a deep-brown iris glared up at her. Her gorge rose and she fought hard not to scream. In that single eye she could see life…and evil.

“Stop looking at it, madame,” Michel ordered her.

Sickened, she turned away.

“More than bokor,” Michel commented, with the air of a scientist examining a microscope slide. “What was he messing with?”

The temperature in the room dipped; it was like a meat locker. Izzy shivered, hard. Every instinct for self-preservation was telling her to get the hell out of there. Michel had warned her that this would be unpleasant, but it was horrible. She could barely tolerate the sensation of menace crawling over her.

Then a voice bounced off the stone walls: “Give me back my soul.” It was a low, terrified howl, and it shook Izzy to her core.

Michel grunted, still peering inside the box. “Malchance magic, I’m sure of it,” he murmured. “They’re good at soul stealing.”

D’Artagnon said, “Oui.”

“Julius Esposito,” Michel said into the box, “I call on you. Who captured your soul?”

“Give me back my soul.”

“Tell us who has it, and we’ll retrieve it for you,” Michel soothed. “We can do that. We’re Gifted. We’ll help you.” Beneath the warmth of his promises, there was an unmistakable edge. He was lying. Izzy wondered if Esposito knew it, too.

“My soul!”

Or perhaps Esposito was beyond caring. He was in agony. She had never heard such terrible despair in her life, and that included her father’s pleas to God Himself to bring his beloved wife, Anna Maria, back from the dead.

D’Artagnon murmured something to Michel, who nodded in reply. D’Artagnon extended his athame into the box.

“Stay well back,” Michel ordered Izzy.

There was a terrible shriek. The white candle on the altar flickered. The statue of Jehanne shifted.

New mist billowed from the floor, very white, very concentrated, so redolent of lavender that Izzy’s eyes watered. Neither Michel nor D’Artagnon paid it any attention. But the smell was choking her, making her cough and gag. The mist hung like a curtain between her and the altar.

A second, more horrible shriek followed.

The candles in the candelabra went out. A cold wind whistled around the room.

“What are you doing?” Izzy demanded, stumbling forward. She craned her neck—

A burst of brilliance filled her field of vision.

“Don’t look!” Michel cried.

But it was too late.

 

Where is your gun, Guardienne? He will take the gun and he will end the House of the Flames. You have to secure your gun. You have to do it now.

Izzy was running in the nightmare forest, dodging branches that grabbed at her as the wolves howled in a ring around her, their hot breath bathing the blood-red moon. The silver wolf at her side darted ahead, diving into the cattails at the murky bayou shoreline. Its tail bobbed like a periscope as the wolf searched frantically, howling and chuffing.

Baying, the other wolves charged in after the silver one, disappearing into the cattails. Water splashed as they all jumped in, and Izzy called out, “No! This way!”

The bayou was crawling with death. It was all around them. They had to get out.

“This way!” she yelled again.

Sharp rocks sliced her feet as she ran to a trio of cypress trees jutting from the water. She heard herself sobbing for breath.

The moon raced across the sky as if hunted like her. Death was coming like a whirlwind.

Pressing her fists against her abdomen as she sucked in air, she glanced up. Her lips parted in terror. Something hung from the center tree…a man…

She saw his shoes, and then his legs…

It was Jean-Marc, gutted, hanging from the tree, his face blackened, worms crawling from his empty eye sockets.

“It didn’t happen!” she shouted. “You showed me this before and—”

And he’s lying in surgery with his chest cracked open, a voice whispered to her. He’s dying, and he will rot, just like this. And it will be your fault.

Get your gun.

I have to get my gun. I have to stop it.

Thrashing, Izzy sat bolt upright. A damp cloth tumbled from her forehead onto her lap, which was swathed in white satin sheets. Beneath the bedclothes, she was wearing an ivory satin nightgown. The rose quartz necklace, the ring and her crucifix still hung around her neck. Andre’s gris-gris was missing.

“Shh, Guardienne, it’s all right. You’re safe,” a woman’s voice murmured. Annette, her mother’s nurse, leaned over her.

“What happened?” she said thickly, as she tried to pick up the cloth. Two veiled women were holding her hands. “Where am I?”

“You’re in your bedroom in the mansion.” Annette took the cloth from Izzy and placed it on a silver tray on a dark wood nightstand beside the bed. She saw gray stone walls, heavy dark furniture and a massive fireplace similar to the one in the safehouse back in New York. In fact, the room was very like the one Jean-Marc had prepared for her in New York. Perhaps it was to make her more comfortable. The truth was, she found both rooms horribly oppressive.

“Reading the bokor’s corpse was too much for you. It made you very ill. We rushed you in here and took care of you. The doctor left only a few minutes ago to check on the regent and your mother.”

She remembered the agents, the box, the gremlin and the eye. And Esposito pleading for his soul. Everything past that was fuzzy.

Annette gestured to the dozen or so veiled women standing around the bed, holding each other’s hands. One of them was curled up beside Izzy on the bed.

“The Femmes Blanches linked up with you and shared their magical essence with you. The doctor gave you oxygen and ran some tests. Your electrolytes were severely imbalanced. That’s been corrected.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then, “What did we find out from the reading?”

A figure moved from the darkness and approached the end of Izzy’s bed. It was Louise. She said, “I’d like to clear the room before we discuss that.”

The Femmes Blanches moved and shifted. Izzy nodded at Annette, who seemed to be in charge. The woman holding her right hand released her. The veiled woman who was seated beside Izzy gave her left hand a squeeze and slid off the bed, joining her sisters as they walked toward the door.

“Please, if you weren’t on duty in my mother’s chamber, go home,” Izzy told them.

The Femmes Blanches had made a vocation of keeping vigil over Izzy’s mother. They worked in shifts, took vacations, and some of them even had jobs. They didn’t live in the mansion. Some had homes in the garden district, and a few occupied funky bungalows and elegant apartments in the French quarter itself.

Once the women had filed out of the room, Louise said to Annette, “You, too, ma’am.”

Annette shifted, unsure.

“It’s all right,” Izzy told her, although she was equally unsure.

As soon as Annette had closed the door behind herself, Louise said, “First, I want you to know that this is the most heavily warded space in all of Bouvard territory. Nothing gets out, nothing comes in. That’s the only reason I’m going to speak so freely.”

“Okay,” Izzy said.

“Esposito gave up Alain de Devereaux’s location. Devereaux is being held in an abandoned convent on Rue de Gas-connes. Michel took Madame Sange and a sizable security team to extract him.”

“Michel…left?” Izzy asked, her eyes widening. Abandoned her, her mother and Jean-Marc after a direct assault?

Louise’s expression was shuttered. Izzy couldn’t read her tone of voice, either, as she said, “It was a hard decision, madame. Michel wanted to survey the situation firsthand. If we can prove that the Malchances engineered the attack and the kidnapping, the Grand Covenate will have no choice but to punish them.”

Izzy didn’t know what to make of that. She had been going on the assumption that most members of the Bouvard family distrusted the Grand Covenate, the governing body of all the Gifted families, clans and tribes. She knew that the last time the Grand Covenate had intervened, Jean-Marc, who was a member of the House of the Shadows, was selected to act as the regent of the House of the Flames. The choice of an outsider from a different family caused a great deal of resentment. The fact that Michel hadn’t contacted the Grand Covenate immediately after the attack bolstered her opinion that he would prefer not to deal with them at all.

She asked, “How many people know what happened to me? That I’ve been unconscious?”

“Very few. Michel ordered strict need-to-know,” Louise informed her. She added, before Izzy could ask, “Your mother’s condition is unchanged. The regent is out of surgery and the doctor is cautiously optimistic.”

Izzy reeled with relief. Oh, thank you, Patroness. Oh, my dear God, thank you.

“Is the regent conscious?” Izzy asked. She needed to see him, to touch him, to be sure that it was true. She needed to hear his voice. See those dark eyes flecked with gold.

“No, and we’re keeping that under wraps as well,” Louise told her. “We’ve got our best guarding him and your mother both.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve been assigned to you.”

“Good,” Izzy said. “Thank you.” She spied the nightstand beside the bed and, on impulse, slid open the top drawer. Her gris-gris lay coiled inside. Pleased, she draped it over her shoulders. She could feel its enfolding warmth. She decided to take it to Jean-Marc.

Izzy glanced at a large ebony clock on the mantel. It was exactly twelve.

She pointed to the clock. “Is that noon or midnight?”

“Midnight,” Louise told her.

Izzy was shocked. She’d been out for an entire day.

She rubbed her forehead as pain blossomed behind her eyes. Then a sudden, sharp image hit her—cattails and cypress trees, the bayou—she saw it all. Remembered it all.

“Madame?” Louise said, instantly on alert.

The pain intensified. Izzy rasped out, “Alain de Devereaux isn’t in a building. He’s in the bayou. You need to let Michel know. He’s searching in the wrong place.”

Louise scrutinized Izzy, cocking her head. “Meaning no disrespect, madame, but D’Artagnon assisted with the reading. He’s the best we have.”

“Have him recheck,” Izzy said.

Louise shook her head. “The remains were destroyed during the first reading.”

“I know he’s not there,” Izzy insisted. “You have to contact Michel immediately.”

Louise shook her head. “His team is on silent running. So are the other search parties. They’re so heavily warded we can’t even contact them telepathically.”

“Then you have to go to Michel,” Izzy said. She rethought. That would waste time. “I need to accompany a team into the bayou. I’m the one who can lead them to him.”

Louise demurred. “Please, don’t even think of that. Michel gave strict orders that you were to rest.”

“Michel’s not here. He doesn’t know what I know. No one does.” Izzy threw her legs over the side of the bed and got to her feet.

Izzy said, “I’m in command here. We need to rescue Alain de Devereaux now.”

Izzy could practically see the wheels turning in the agent’s brain. She raised her hand to brush errant tendrils of hair from her forehead, feeling more warmth against her skin as her headache lessened. Her palm was glowing; white heat pulsated in the center of her flame-shaped scar. On impulse, she showed it to Louise.

“Remember, I carry the sign of the House of the Flames,” she said. She touched the ring. “And Michel himself handed over the ring. I need to make my orders stick, or there’s no point.”

Louise appeared to be thinking this over. Ice-water fingers crept down Izzy’s backbone as she wondered if she and Louise were facing off. If she was about to find out what her true status was after all.

Louise made her decision, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw, saying stiffly, “As you wish, ma Guardienne. I’ll go with you.”

I am not the guardienne yet, Izzy wanted to say. But this most definitely was not the time to remind the agent of that.

She said, “Good. First I’ll go see Jean—”

Go now, said the voice. Or it will be too late.

She paused. Every part of her wanted to check on Jean-Marc first. But she knew she had to listen to the voice.

“What, madame?” Louise asked.

“Never mind. Where’s my gun?”

Louise hesitated, then reached inside her jacket and lifted Izzy’s Medusa out of her own holster.

“I took possession when you lost consciousness,” she said. “You have five .9 mm cartridges left. I’ll get you some more ammo.”

“Thank you,” Izzy said. “Now, we need a plan to rescue Alain without causing more havoc here in the mansion.”

“D’accord,” Louise said. “Let’s work one out.”

 

It was a good one, given the short notice. One thing about growing up in the NYPD was that you learned that operations were far messier and more ad hoc than they were characterized in TV and the movies. Improvisation and crossed fingers comprised about fifty percent of a cop’s bag of tricks. So they had to leave a lot of holes that they would fill in as their mission got underway. It was the nature of the beast, and Izzy was good with that.

“Okay. Let’s go with what we have,” Izzy told her.

Louise half opened the door and peered out. “The Femmes Blanches are milling around out there.”

Izzy walked to the door and opened it. Veiled faces turned in her direction. Annette, who had been sitting in an ivory brocade chair beside a white marble statue of Jehanne, rose to her feet.

“Thank you for seeing to me,” Izzy told them. “I’m very grateful to you, and I’m all better now. Please resume your normal routine.”

Annette frowned. “You are our normal routine.”

“I’m fine,” Izzy insisted. “And I need some time by myself. I’ll have some guards. I insist,” she added, pushing.

Annette acquiesced with a bob of her head. “Oui, Guardienne.” She turned to the Femmes Blanches, and Izzy left it to her to disperse them.

From behind her Louise said, “I’ll make sure they leave.”

“Good,” Izzy said. “Meanwhile, I’ll get dressed.”

“Oui, Guardienne. The door will lock behind me. You’ll be able to get out, but no one but I will be able to get back in.”

With a bow Louise left, shutting the door, which clicked with finality. And Izzy wondered, not for the first time, if she had just become a prisoner.

Opening the armoire opposite the bed, she found all kinds of new clothes in her size. She pulled on black cargo pants and snaked a black turtleneck over her head. Jean-Marc, who had arranged for her wardrobe, had probably assumed she’d be wearing these clothes for training, not an actual mission.

Or had he? He had repeatedly warned her about the chaotic state of the House of the Flames. He had told her that blood was running in the streets of the French quarter, compliments of Le Fils. What then, had he been training her for, if not to get in on the action?

She found black wool socks and slipped them on. As she stepped into a new pair of black leather hiking boots, she glanced again at the antique ebony clock on the fireplace mantel. It was almost 1:00 a.m.

Her busy brain ran through worst-case scenarios. If word got out that she had left the mansion, an assassin might take that as his—or her—cue to kill Jean-Marc and her mother both.

I may be the only thing standing between Jean-Marc, Marianne and their enemies. Maybe I should leave Alain de Devereaux to his fate, no matter how awful it might be.

But what could she do to keep them safe? Her presence was not a guaranteed deterrent against any kind of attack on her mother and the regent. She had to play to her strengths: she stood a better chance of protecting them if she had backup she could count on. Allies. Real ones, not just assigned ones, like Michel and Louise. Jean-Marc trusted his cousin. That made saving Alain a priority. And if she could find Andre while she was at it, so much the better.

There was a sharp rap on the door. Louise entered. She was still wearing her suit, and an overstuffed olive-green duffel bag was slung across her shoulders. Sauvage and Ruthven followed her into the room. They had both washed their faces. Izzy had never seen Sauvage without her makeup, and their relative youth and obvious fear gave Izzy pause. Maybe this was not such a good idea….

Sauvage ran over to Izzy, giving her a rib-cracking hug. “One of those chicks with the head scarves said you’d been hurt,” she said, gazing up at Izzy with tears in her eyes.

“I’m okay,” Izzy said, touched.

Ruthven was bug-eyed and frightened as he slid his hands under his arms and bowed awkwardly.

“Hola, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Did Agent Bouvard explain what I want you to do?” Izzy asked Sauvage, dispensing with the formalities.

Sauvage nodded wildly. “Yes, Guardienne, oui-oui.” She reached out and grabbed Ruthven’s wrist, yanking his hand loose and waggling it. “We’re in, right, baby?”

Ruthven swallowed hard. “It won’t hurt her, right?”

“Right,” Louise replied, stepping forward, taking charge. She said to Sauvage, “You won’t feel a thing.”

There was another rap on the door. Louise paused, closed her eyes, then crossed and opened it. Another female agent in a black suit briskly stepped into the room. She also carried a duffel bag. She had flaming red hair, and her green eyes reminded Izzy of Pat’s. Izzy felt a pang. Would she ever see him again?

“Madame la Guardienne.” She greeted Izzy with a curtsy. “My name is Mathilde. It’s such an honor.”

Mathilde dumped her duffel bag onto the floor, unzipped it and began pulling out black clothing similar to Izzy’s. There were two sets of everything.

“I thought we should wait to change in here. I didn’t want to rouse suspicion,” Louise explained, as she and the redhead took off their suit jackets and began to unbutton their white shirts.

“Yow,” Ruthven said, quickly turning his back.

The two agents quickly stripped down to sports bras and underwear. Their bodies were sinewy. At the base of her spine, Louise sported a tattoo identical to the scar on Izzy’s palm—the flame icon of the House of the de Bouvards—and Izzy hoped it was a sign that Louise was genuinely on her side. It was going to be a real bitch if they got out into the field and these women turned on Izzy.

As Louise slipped on a pair of black cargo pants, Mathilde said to her, “I made successful contact with the others.”

“Good.” Louise slipped what looked to be a pair of brass knuckles into a cargo pocket. To Izzy she said, “We’ll have two more inside, two outside. So we’re six. Plus you, madame.”

“That’s it?” Izzy asked.

“We’re all high-level magic users,” Louise assured her. She was grabbing grenades, some piano wire and boxes of ammo to stuff into her pockets. “And there’s safety in small numbers. We can travel fast, and hopefully stay under everybody’s radar.”

Izzy wondered who “everybody” was.

As Mathilde packed her own cargo pants with equipment, Louise reached into her duffel bag with one hand and gestured to Izzy’s Medusa on the bed with the other. “I’ve got that ammo I mentioned.”

Hearing that, Ruthven turned back around, as if eager to watch. He and Sauvage put their arms around each other, observing in silence as Louise pushed the flange on the left side of the cylinder, then eased the cylinder out of the frame.

“All you need right now is one more .9 mm,” Louise said, pressing a lipstick-shaped cartridge into the cylinder. That accomplished, she held it out to Izzy. “Remember, madame, there’s no safety.”

Mathilde, who was strapping on knee pads, stared at the Medusa and murmured, “Sweet,” as Izzy picked it up. Fully loaded, it was much heavier than before. “May I hold it, madame?”

Izzy hesitated, then handed it to her.

Mathilde hefted the Medusa, whistling soundlessly. Her interest bordered on lust, and she exhaled deeply, like a spent lover, when she passed it over to Louise. Izzy kept a lid on her growing anxiety; these women were crack shots, and they were the only two in the room who were armed. She wanted the Medusa back. Now.

“Did Jean-Marc have this made for you?” Louise asked, tracing Izzy’s portrait etched in the grip. Izzy was surprised that Louise didn’t know that the gun was Marianne’s. The picture of Izzy—or Marianne—had magically appeared during their training session in the Cloisters, back in New York.

Izzy picked up her gun belt and wrapped it around her waist, saying, “It’s my gun.”

She waited a beat. Louise stared back down at the Medusa and said, “If you don’t know how to use it, maybe I should keep it. It’s extremely powerful.”

“I know how to use it,” Izzy said steadily, even though that was pretty much a lie. But she wasn’t giving up her weapon to anyone.

Louise sighed and handed it over. Then she gathered up her hair and pulled on a black knit cap like Izzy’s. Mathilde did the same. They slipped on tight-fitting jackets. Louise handed one to Izzy. When she put it on, static electricity shocks went off like a trail of gunpowder.

Louise and Mathilde reached into their duffels and pulled out heavy-looking, webbed vests. Body armor. As Louise held one out, Mathilde stretched her arms through the armholes. Then she turned around and Louise fanned her fingers. There was a snick and Louise said, “You’re bolted.”

Mathilde did the same for her, down to the “bolting.” Then Louise retrieved a third vest for Izzy.

“If you need to get the vest off in a hurry, say this word. I’ll spell it for you,” Louise said. “T-e-r-m-i-n-u-s. Do you speak Latin?”

“Not really,” Izzy allowed. “I’ve heard a little. I’m Catholic,” she added.

The two women stopped moving and stared at her. Mathilde paled, while Louise blinked rapidly, her lips parting in shock.

Now what? Izzy wondered. They must have their own religion. Maybe I’m supposed to be their pope or something.

The moment passed—or rather, the agents chose to ignore it. Izzy put on knee pads. They checked each other out, running through a verbal checklist as each of them touched their pockets and verified possession of things they described in jargon: les sploders, wire, poprocks, choses, malfacteus.

When they were finished, Louise crossed over to Sauvage and said, “It’s showtime.”

“Oh, my God, I’m so freaked out,” Sauvage murmured to Ruthven. Then she kissed her young boyfriend hard on the lips and minced over to the bed in her heeled boots. She sat on the edge of the mattress. “Do I need to take off my clothes?”

“It doesn’t matter either way,” Louise said.

“Okay,” Sauvage whispered as she lay down on the bed. Ruthven backed away. Mathilde and Louise made motions over Sauvage’s body. White light poured from their hands and spread over Sauvage like a sheet, throbbing and pulsing all over her body. One moment Sauvage was Sauvage…and the next…

She didn’t look exactly like Izzy. She had Izzy’s black cloud of hair, her dark eyes and freckles, but she looked more like a close relative than Izzy herself. Still, if the lights were lowered, and she pretended to be asleep, she could probably pass.

Louise ticked her glance to Izzy. “It’s not as sophisticated as a Devereaux glamour.”

“No one does glamours as well as the Devs,” Mathilde said, an envious half smile quirking her face as she bent down beside her duffle and gathered up a fistful of crucifixes.

“Let me see,” Sauvage demanded, hopping out of the bed and trotting to the full-length mirror at the foot of the bed. She posed, frowned. “Hey. I don’t look that much like you at all.”

“Maybe we should go with a fabricant,” Louise mused as she crossed her arms and followed Sauvage’s gaze into the mirror. “We could probably get a closer match.”

Fabricants were magically created beings. Le Fils had sent a fabricant assassin after Izzy in New York. It had seemed terribly real.

“I’d suggest we stick with the glamour,” Mathilde said. “We’d have better control.” She added, “A fabricant might degrade too fast. We don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”

Then Louise closed her eyes, paused, glanced expectantly at the door and said, “Good. They’re here. Mathilde, let them in.”

Mathilde crossed to the door, opened it, and let two more women inside. They were also dressed in black suits and white blouses, wearing lapel pins and headsets. Both of them curtseyed to Izzy, one reaching forward to kiss her bare ring finger.

“Catherine and Laure,” Louise said, as the two rose and stood at parade rest. “Top agents. Crack shots, magically and otherwise. We’re posting them here to stand guard over Sauvage and Ruthven. They’d rather die than let harm come to the woman lying in that bed.”

Both women stared straight ahead, but color rose in their cheeks.

Louise looked at Izzy. “We should mobilize. We’re pushing our luck.”

Izzy wanted to ask her if she really believed in luck. Where did that fit in, exactly, with people who could use magic? Instead, she arranged her gris-gris over the shoulders of her body armor and patted the Medusa in her holster. The weight of the gun, once an unthinkable burden, was now her anchor.

Izzy turned back to Sauvage. “You’re being very brave,” she told her. “Jean-Marc will be proud of you when he hears how well you handled this.” The temptation rose again to go downstairs and see him before they left. She quelled it.

Sauvage’s eyes were huge as she raised herself up on her elbows. “Unless he dies,” she said mournfully.

“God, Jesse,” Ruthven chided her. “Don’t say shit like that.”

Louise motioned for the others to follow her as she crossed to the stone wall opposite the door. She snapped her fingers. A hand’s breadth in front of her, a larger-than-life-size oil portrait of Marianne in her white gown shimmered into view. Her stance was regal, power radiating from every pore. A tiara of white flames glowed from the crown of her dark hair, and she held a clutch of lilies in one veined, muscular hand and an athame in the other. From beneath her gown, a white slipper was planted on top of a skull with glowing red eyes.

Louise looked from the portrait to Izzy and back again, as if measuring the resemblance. Then she pointed her finger and the entire portrait rose into the air, revealing the entrance to a tunnel hewn from the thick marble wall.

“I’ll take point,” Louise announced.

Mathilde said, “I’ll bring up the rear. Stay in the middle, Guardienne.”

Izzy looked one last time over her shoulder at Ruthven and Sauvage, huddled together on the bed, gaping at them.

“Be careful,” she said. They nodded in silent unison.

Izzy wondered if she would ever see them again.

I zzy and the two Bouvard agents stepped into the tunnel. A white mist swirled around her ankles and more cascaded from above, tumbling featherlight on her head and shoulders.

Izzy stiffened. Louise said, “It’s for protection, Guardienne. It won’t hurt you.”

“I’m okay,” Izzy gritted.

As they rose off the ground a lavender scent wafted through the thickening vapor. The fog became so thick she couldn’t see her hand before her face. But she did see a white glow below her chin: it was the ring.

They glided forward, or so it seemed. Izzy had no sense of direction.

After a time she said, “What will happen to Esposito’s soul?”

“I’m not privy to that,” Louise said flatly.

“His body was destroyed,” Izzy pressed.

“His remains aren’t necessary for the return of his soul. That’s only the case when the person whose soul is stolen is still alive,” Louise said. It was clear she didn’t want to discuss it.

“Alive…” Izzy couldn’t even begin to follow that.

“D’Artagnon debriefed Bob and me on the reading,” Louise elaborated. “Esposito’s soul was taken at the time of death. He probably had a prior arrangement with the Forces of Darkness.”

“He…sold his soul to the Devil?” Izzy blurted.

“That’s one way of putting it, madame. Although so far as we can tell, there is no Devil, per se. The Dark Side is far more loosely structured than the Grand Covenate. They don’t even have a governing body, and they don’t work together toward any common purpose. They jostle for power among themselves far more than we do.”

“But there is a Dark Side,” Izzy managed to say. It hadn’t even dawned on her to wonder about it; she’d been having enough trouble wrapping her head around the world of the Gifted. “So do they have Houses or…”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Louise said. “Although a number of us believe the Malchances are in bed with them.”

The Malchances again. Who were these people?

“They’re the House of the Blood,” Izzy said.

“Right. One of the original three, with us and the Devereaux,” Louise put in. “We are the House of the Flames. The Devereaux are the House of the Shadows. We were all founded in the 1400s.”

“When Joan of Arc tried to unify France,” Izzy finished. “And passed her power on to us before she was martyred.”

“‘Martyred,’” Louise repeated, sounding a bit derisive. “We prefer to say that she was murdered. There is no Catholic connection for us.”

“Souls contain mystical energy,” Mathilde put in, as if to smooth over the awkward moment. “Absorbing the soul of another can prolong life, enhance Gifts…” She trailed off. “We don’t do that.”

“We Bouvards,” Izzy said. The implication being that other Gifted Houses did.

There was the merest hesitation before Louise replied, “Oui. We Bouvards.”

Louise’s hesitation hung in the air. Was it an unconscious admission that she didn’t consider Izzy a Bouvard? If that were the case, was this “rescue mission” actually a coup? Was she being hustled offstage to be gotten rid of?

She remembered her NYPD dream, when Esposito had forced her to follow him by taking Sauvage hostage. Was this a mirror of that? Was she being lured out of the mansion supposedly to save Alain…when it was really to take her down?

I’m not liking this, Izzy thought.

As quietly as she could, she eased her Medusa out of its holster and wrapped her right hand around the grip. She felt along the barrel with the fingertips of her left.

They traveled on in silence. Izzy’s pulse raced in her neck, her temple. She kept the Medusa close.

A light rose around them, and the mist thinned. The curved interior of the tunnel was covered with symbols. There were reflective triangles, ankhs, crosses and eyes set in the center of hands. Numerals gleamed in white stonework: seven, thirteen, thirty-three, five. In an alcove, a brass brazier burned before a life-size statue of Joan of Arc holding a banner and a sword. Pungent incense permeated the air.

Izzy glanced backward. The entire length of the tunnel was covered with magical charms. It reminded her of the interior of Andre’s werewolf van, back in New York.

“All these things are for protection,” Mathilde told her. “Most of these charms are centuries old.”

Louise raised a hand and said, “We need to perform a ritual before we go any farther.”

“It’s also for protection,” Mathilde said.

The three sank to the tunnel floor in the rapidly evaporating mist.

Mathilde and Louise breathed deeply in, deeply out. Then the two women swayed left, right, leading with their shoulders, exaggerating the movement until they twirled in slow circles, chanting in a lilting, singsong language.

Without any sort of advance warning, all three were outside the tunnel, on the mansion’s grounds, shrouded in darkness at the base of a high brick wall. Cool night air tightened Izzy’s face.

Louise snapped her fingers, and the wall disappeared. In its place, two black-masked men faced Izzy, Louise and Mathilde, with Uzis drawn and aimed. Solid oaks rose behind them like another wall; above, a bone-white moon stood sentry. Izzy raised her Medusa and pointed it at the taller of the two men.

“Lower your weapons,” Louise said. As both men obeyed, she said, “Masks?”

“We’re on recon,” the taller man replied.

“Take them off,” she snapped.

The men yanked the masks off over their heads. They were both dark-eyed and dark-haired, young and in fighting trim.

“Hugues, Bernard,” Louise said, addressing each in turn. “Any surprises so far?”

“Got out without incident, patrolled, nothing,” the taller one said. Apparently he was Bernard. He looked at Izzy. “Is, this, ah…”

Izzy’s Medusa was still aimed at his chest. She said in French, “Je suis Isabelle de Bouvard, Maison des Flammes.”

“So it’s true,” Bernard said, his features softening. “La fille de la guardienne.”

Both men sank to one knee.

Izzy considered her next move. Louise had hand picked the security agents surrounding Izzy at this very moment, and Izzy had no idea where their loyalties lay. She concentrated on her gut, trying to feel her way.

Jehanne, guide-moi, je vous en prie.

Go, the wind whispered. Allez. Vite. Hurry.

“Allez vite,” Izzy commanded them.

 

They skirted the perimeter of the Bouvard estate. The mansion, magically repaired from the attack, lay beneath a gauzy dome of white beneath the ivory moon. Figures holding Uzis patrolled each of the floors and the roof.

There were more security forces stationed along the wall, within and without, and Louise motioned for the party of five to keep well away as they melted into the bayou just beyond the grounds. It seemed so strange to be hiding from her own bodyguards, but in truth, Izzy had no idea how many of them were “hers.”

The moon watched, an enormous eye in the sky, while Izzy and the others picked up the pace and laid tracks between themselves and the compound. As they penetrated the murky rot of the swamp, Izzy was on high alert. She was inside her nightmare; she recognized the landscape—the uneven paths, the skeletal trees—and she was terrified. Her fright-or-flight response was engaged full force.

For ten years I dreamed about this place. Ten long years. And now I’m here.

Bernard was on point, then Louise, then her. Directly behind Izzy was Mathilde, and in the rear, Hugues.

She listened for the Cajun werewolf pack—surely one of them had let loose with the howl she had heard in her mind. She wondered if they were trying to contact her; she hoped so. She realized then that of everyone around her, Andre was the local she trusted most—even more than she trusted Jean-Marc. Andre’s agenda was far simpler: he was loyal to Jean-Marc because the regent looked out for the wolf pack, and Jean-Marc had asked Andre to protect Izzy. So he had.

Andre, are you out here? Are you hurt? Tell me where you are, she sent out. If your people have found you, tell them to let me know.

The tall marsh grass rustled. Bernard swiveled his weapon. She wondered why they didn’t have some kind of night-vision goggles to see better in the dappled, thready moonlight. Maybe they naturally possessed better night vision than ordinary human beings, and didn’t realize she was having trouble.

I’m not an ordinary human being. I’m a Gifted, too.

But maybe she wasn’t a full-blooded Gifted. No one knew who her father was—or at least, that was the party line. Maybe he was just an ordinary person. Or a werewolf. Maybe Andre was her father.

Not old enough. At least, he doesn’t look old enough. Jean-Marc said he was older than he looked.

Something fluttered overhead—she hoped it was a bird—and she ducked beneath a ropy vine looped around an overhanging branch. She slipped on slimy mud and shot a hand toward the branch to steady herself.

The vine hissed and sprang at her. She saw nothing but fangs. Snake! Without thinking, she hurled a ball of white light from her palm. It ignited the snake. Encased in fire, it writhed and sizzled, coiling and springing in its death throes, then was still. Smoke and steam rose from the carcass.

Mathilde leaned over her and said, “By the patronesse, madame! That was a cottonmouth. Are you all right?” She examined Izzy’s hands. She paused, gazing at the flame-shaped brand in the center of Izzy’s palm, then added, “Did it bite you?”

“No. I’m fine,” Izzy grunted. She planted her boot in the mud and heaved herself up.

“You need to keep alert to your surroundings, madame,” Bernard said. “Not meaning any offense. But the bayou is a very dangerous place.”

“That’s what we’re supposed to do,” Louise snapped. “Let’s keep moving.” She looked at Izzy. “Which way, madame?”

No clue, Izzy wanted to reply, but that was probably not very wise. She took a moment, waiting for more mystical guidance. A vision had sent her here. Maybe she would have another one and obtain more details.

Just as she was about to give up, something whispered against her left ear, and she turned her head. The others must have read her body language; they stood statue still, as if to let her get a bead on it.

“To the left,” she said, pointing toward a thick copse of trees.

“It figures,” Bernard drawled, with a lopsided grin. “Swamp’s deep there. Lots of gators.”

He walked through the dense foliage, pushing aside cattails and rushes. Hugues followed him. Once they stood side by side, they raised arms and murmured an incantation. There was a wild thrashing, like a fierce struggle in the water. After a few moments stillness descended.

“That’s gonna cost,” Louise muttered. She looked at Izzy and said, “The gators that didn’t make it out will probably drown.”

Izzy was appalled. “You mean they’ll die?” She headed over to the two men. “Stop,” she said. “Take it back.”

Bernard shook his head. “Please don’t ask me to do that. I’ve already paid. In fact…” He reached over and hoisted her up into his arms, settling her against his chest. “With your permission, madame.”

“What?” she cried.

“I’ll carry you,” he said, shifting her weight in his arms. “There are other things in the water. The gators are just the worst.”

“No. Put me down,” she said, mortified.

“Carry her,” Louise told him.

Izzy fumed as the party resumed their trek through the waist-high cattails, then started down a slope. Black water sparkled in the moonlight beneath heavy vines and strange, knobby pieces of wood jutting around the cypress trees.

Louise bent down, picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. The brackish water was shallow there, and Louise said, “Let’s go in.”

Following behind Louise, Bernard sloshed in. Mathilde was behind her, then Hugues. The water stank. Izzy tried to hold her boots above the surface.

They crossed to a jutting finger of land. Bernard set Izzy down. The ground was soggy, sucking at her feet.

They found a rhythm as they crossed the slippery terrain, Izzy slowing until they hit a patch of drier ground with more traction. The swamp, scene of so many terrible dreams, was a place of unearthly beauty.

“Attack!” Bernard shouted.

Someone tackled Izzy and flung her to the ground. Her nose made a terrible crunching noise as pain shot from the front of her face to the back of her head. She gagged on dirt, fighting for breath as something slammed hard across the back of her head.

She started to pass out until she felt sticklike fingers groping around her waist.

My Medusa!

She drew deep inside herself for reserves, then tossed her head back hard, connecting with the face of her attacker. Something long and sharp dug into her skull. It felt like a knife, or an ice pick, and the pain took the last of her breath away. She began to go fuzzy. She fumbled for the gun, trying to work her spasming muscles to put her hand around it, draw it out and aim it backward.

A tremendous shower of sparks blinded her; a blaze of heat mushroomed against her back. Then a weight fell against her, pushing her onto a mound of mud and rot.

Pinned, she couldn’t move her head, but she could open her eyes. The bayou night was as bright as day, as the four Bouvard security agents took out the white-faced, hollow-eyed creatures that were dropping from the trees. They were vampire minions, flying creatures that were all blood-red eyes, fangs and wings, like the ones that had attacked Jean-Marc and her back in New York. Fireballs slammed into them, then submachine gunfire strafed a row of five or six as they bulleted toward Izzy.

“Move, move, move!” Hugues shouted at her as the deadweight flopped to one side. Izzy crawled forward, but it was all she could do. She couldn’t breathe. The world was spinning.

She laid her cheek in the mud and gazed into the evil, red eyes of the thing that had attacked her. It was a minion; its features were ratlike, the color of gristle. As it pulled back its grayish white lips, she saw that one of its fangs had broken off at the gumline. Then she realized that it was imbedded in the back of her head.

Oh, my God, she thought, as its eyes bored into hers. Its mouth clacked.

It lisped, in a low, seductive voice meant only for her ears, “Isabella DeMarco. This is the voice of Le Fils, speaking through my servant. I send you this message—they’re playing you. This is not your battle. These are not your people. Go home. I will protect you in New York. I swear it.”

Then someone covered her eyes and threw his body across hers as the minion exploded into purple-black light, just like Julius Esposito.

It was Bernard, his face grim as he eased Izzy onto her back. Explosions went off all around them, bathing Bernard in white light. Velcro ripped as he opened various pockets in her cargo pants. He had what looked like a canteen and several glass vials. He broke open the vials and poured the contents into the canteen. He shook it hard, murmuring an incantation, and scooted Izzy up onto her knees, sliding a supporting hand beneath the back of her head and lifting the canteen to her lips.

Izzy couldn’t drink. Her throat was filled with dirt. She was suffocating. And her nose…oh, God, her nose…the pain…

Bernard set the canteen down and dug a finger into Izzy’s mouth. He pulled out a hunk of dirt. Then he hoisted Izzy up and got behind her, executing a Heimlich with practiced skill.

She hacked up another clot of mud. As she coughed, Bernard bent her forward and pounded on her back, murmuring a spell, easing the raw burning in her throat.

Then he pressed the canteen to her lips and said, “Drink this. It’s a healing potion.”

A liqueur spread warmth through her veins. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she began to lose consciousness. The brandy’s warmth kept spreading.

The pain lessened. She tried to raise her hand to her face but Bernard said, “No. Stay still.”

He pushed Izzy’s mass of hair out of the way of the back of her head and jerked on something, which came free. He showed it to Izzy as Izzy finished off the canteen. It was the vampire’s fang.

Oh, my God, I had a vampire tooth imbedded in my head.

There was noise all around them, explosions and gunfire. The shrieking minions.

“Bernard!” Louise barked.

Bernard held out his hand to Izzy. Izzy rose up out of the muck. Suddenly, she felt good. She felt strong. She raced into the melee—a kaleidoscope of fireballs, minions and Bouvards—and dove for the nearest attacker. She leaped onto its back, gripped its jaw with both hands and yanked hard to the side.

Its neck was broken and its head flopped forward. It staggered, flailing at her.

Clenching her jaw against her terror, she put the Medusa to the minion’s head and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

She pulled it again as the minion reached its arms back, preparing to grab her.

Still nothing.

Great.

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A s the minion reached behind itself and sank its talons into Izzy’s sides, Hugues shouted, “I’ve got it! Get away!”

Izzy grabbed the Medusa with both fists and pounded on the monster’s left wrist, then on the top of its head. She kicked and flailed and somehow got it to let go of her. She tumbled off its back, landing hard. As she scooted away, she covered her head.

A gun went off.

There was a moment’s delay, and then the minion exploded.

Eyes against her knees, she clasped her hands across the back of her neck in a protective gesture. Smoking fragments thudded to the ground around her head and shoulders. Izzy clutched her malfunctioning gun and breathed hard through her mouth, working to get herself back under control and into the action.

But there was no more shrieking, no more gunfire or explosions. As she sat up, she saw bodies on the ground and fronds and ferns undulating as something raced off. None of the bodies were her people.

Thin moonlight poured down like a weak searchlight.

We’re alive. We’ve all made it.

What the hell is wrong with my gun?

She pulled down the flange on the left side of the barrel and pushed the cylinder open. The cartridges were in the chambers. The mechanism to deliver them must be faulty. Or Louise had done something to it.

“Guardienne?” Bernard shouted. He dashed toward her. “Tu vas bien?”

“I’m…” she replied, but her voice died away as her focus went past the Medusa to a dark shape slithering next to her right boot.

Another cottonmouth!

“Snake!” she shouted.

“Where? Where?” Bernard yelled, aiming his gun at her feet.

She got to her feet and danced backward. The shape broadened and expanded, filling out into the hazy shadow of a man. It looked like the chalk outline of a murder victim. Then it lifted from the ground and rose into the air like a kite. It hung in the air about two feet from Izzy, assuming a three-dimensional form, devoid of facial detail.

“Guardienne,” it rasped. Its voice was a whisper that echoed in her head, in her chest, in her bones.

“Where’s the snake?” Bernard asked her.

He and the others and were searching the ground with their weapons pointed down. No one else saw the shadowy figure or heard its voice. Was she having another vision?

“It must have gotten away,” Louise observed. “We have to get out of here. They probably weren’t alone.”

“Guardienne,” the voice said again, flat, hollow and almost dead-sounding. “Vous voyez avant vous le vassal du Roi Gris.”

Roi Gris. The Gray King. The patron of the Devereauxes. Was this the Gray King? Should she kneel?

“Je cherche Alain de Devereaux,” she said aloud, before she even realized what she was doing. I am looking for Alain de Devereaux.

“Moi, aussi,” the figure said. Me, also.

“Madame, what are you seeing?” Louise demanded, her arms extended as she whirled in a circle. Mathilde ripped open one of her cargo pockets, and the two men fanned the perimeter with their machine guns.

“Do you know where he is?” Izzy asked the figure. Her French deserted her, as it usually did after a few spoken words.

The figure rose higher into the air, thinning and streaming like a column of smoke, difficult to see against the black night. Ignoring the questions of the others, Izzy shielded her forehead and squinted hard, straining to separate the figure from the background of trees and darkness.

Her head was throbbing, her chest and throat ached, but she shouted after it, “Where is he?”

“What are you seeing?” Louise yelled at her, circling again. The two men followed her lead, flanking Izzy, placing her inside a circle as they scanned the black bayou with the barrels of their weapons.

The figure became nothing more substantial than a wisp of smoke that arced over the trees and trailed downward.

“What is it?” Louise insisted. “Ms. DeMarco, tell us what is there!”

The two men swiveled in Louise’s direction.

Ms. DeMarco? Not Ma Guardienne?

In a split-second instant of clarity, Izzy realized that Louise had lied to her: “Nothing gets in, nothing gets out.”

Louise had told Izzy that her bedroom was so heavily warded that they didn’t need to worry about it being bugged. That Michel was equally warded such that he couldn’t be contacted telepathically. Yet, when Catherine and Laure had arrived, she had sensed their presence before they had a chance to knock.

A guilty shadow crossed over Louise’s face. Then she said, “Let’s hustle!”

“My gun jammed,” Izzy said. “You loaded it and it didn’t work anymore.”

“Give it to me. It should work.” Under the guise of reaching for the gun, Louise aimed her palm at Izzy. A burst of light erupted from the center of Louise’s hand, shooting straight for her.

“Non, madame!” Bernard shouted, rushing Izzy and flinging her to the ground. Crouched in front of her, he formed a palm strike with his left hand. Blue light coalesced into a fireball and slammed into Louise. Louise was thrown backward, her body hurtling through space until she smacked into a cypress tree. Izzy heard the impact. Then she landed on the sharp, jutting sections of cypress root encircling the tree, and fell sideways into the swamp water.

Meanwhile, Mathilde took off at a dead heat. After she’d put in some distance, she wheeled around, reached into her cargo pants, and flung something cylindrical at Bernard.

“Look out!” Izzy yelled, attempting to intercept it with another sphere of energy. But nothing came from her palm.

“Stay down!” Bernard ordered Izzy, as he shot a ball of blue light at the object and it exploded in midair.

Hugues tackled Mathilde, pushing her facedown on the ground. “Don’t move!” he yelled, as Bernard got to his feet and trained his submachine gun on her.

Hugues straddled Mathilde. He wrenched her gun out of her right hand and threw it hard. Then he began patting her down, slapping his hands down her sides and back.

“What else do you have? What do you have?” he shouted at her. “Give it up! Give it all up now or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

“Who are you working for?” The barrel of Bernard’s submachine gun jammed against the back of her head. “Talk! Now!”

Mathilde didn’t move. He nudged her with the barrel. She remained motionless.

Bernard threw down his weapon and yelled, “Merde! She’s done something. Suicide spell.”

“CPR,” Hugues said. “Get the armor off her. It’s bolted.”

Izzy saw the bolt that kept the armor in place. She shouted, “Terminus!”

Hugues slid out the bolt and pulled the two halves of the armor apart.

The men fell into French as they stripped her armor off and ripped open her sweater. Bernard pushed down too hard; Mathilde’s rib cracked with a terrible wrenching sound.

“Un, deux, trois,” Bernard counted as he pushed on Mathilde’s chest. Then he waited as Hugues blew into her mouth.

Izzy dropped down beside them, clasping one of Mathilde’s hands in both of hers.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art Thou among women…” The Catholic prayer of intercession fell easily from her lips.

Bernard stopped counting and murmured to Hugues. He answered back in French.

“I have a healing Gift,” Hugues declared. “Let me join you, madame.”

Hugues wrapped his hand over Izzy’s. Heat from his flesh scorched her skin, but she didn’t flinch, only forced more words of the prayer between her lips.

“Ne meurs pas, garce,” Bernard said under his breath. “Don’t you die. I will find your soul and I will tear it apart.”

Bernard got up and walked to the swamp. He bent down and picked up Louise’s body, her arms and legs bent at impossible angles.

“This one is dead, too,” he announced.

The back of Izzy’s palm began to blister. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out.

“Mon Dieu, madame!” Hugues cried, raising his hand off hers.

Izzy’s hand was badly burned. The peeling skin was bright red, the wound, weeping and bloody. Izzy quietly got to her feet and formed a palm strike with her aching hand. But her palm remained cold.

“Too late. She beat us. She’s gone,” Bernard declared, shaking his head. “Both of them.”

Izzy reached down and found Mathilde’s gun among the rushes and ferns, and raised it up with both hands. She was in agony. She took a breath, let half of it out and got ready to shoot them dead.

Bernard looked up at her. His eyes widened and he put his hands on his head. “Hugues,” he warned.

“Guardienne,” Hugues protested, raising his hands where Izzy could see them. “Please, put that down. We’re loyal to you. We only want to protect you. We need to get you out of here now.”

“You’re Louise’s men,” Izzy said.

A long shriek pierced the shadows. It was terrifyingly close. Izzy had no idea how she kept from jerking the gun. It startled the men, too. Bernard spoke to Hugues in rapid-fire French. Then in place of the dark-haired man, a shaggy blonde with a half-moon scar on his cheek stared steadily back at her. Beside him, Hugues changed as well, to a dark-skinned man in dreadlocks.

“We are members of the House of the Shadows. Devereaux,” Bernard said quickly. “I am Maurice, he is Georges. We’re on your side. We’ll explain, but later. We have to get out of here now. It’s another attack.”

It cost her to lower the weapon, but she did it. The two men immediately leaped to their feet, and Bernard took the submachine gun back from her.

She said, “Okay. Get me out of here.”

They each grabbed one of her wrists and held tightly. She felt strength flowing from them into her as they took off at a dead run.

A sphere of light crashed into the nearest tree, lighting up their surroundings.

“Merde!” Georges cried.

He spoke to Maurice, then released Izzy’s arm and wheeled behind her as Maurice kept her running. More spheres exploded. Maurice pushed her in front of him, cradling her against his body as they rushed through the darkness.

Overhanging trees burst into flame. Explosions shook the ground. Maurice muttered in French as he shielded her, slamming her to the ground and throwing himself on top of her.

Then he dragged her back up to her feet, shouting, “Vite! Vite!” She was literally seeing stars, perhaps from the percussion. Her eardrums had shut; she could barely hear him.

They came to another inlet of water. Maurice pushed her hard, and she tumbled in. Her body armor weighted her down. She flailed, trying to get to the surface, but she was sinking fast. She felt his hand around her forearm; then she broke through the water, gasping.

“Can you swim?” he asked.

As an answer, she tried to progress forward by windmilling her arms, but the armor was too heavy. Seeing her predicament, he propelled her along as he crashed through the water beside her.

Something scaly and sharp bumped against her and the only thing she could do was swim harder, although everything in her wanted to panic. It hit her again and she opened her mouth to scream, but the fetid water filled her mouth and she began to choke and cough.

Maurice shot a blue-tinged fireball over her shoulder. It hissed into the water, and whatever had brushed against her thrashed in response. Izzy had no time to see what it was, no desire to know.

It seemed like hours until Maurice half pulled, half carried her onto land again. All she could do was pant and keep moving. She had both her hands around his wrist and she kept a tight hold.

I’m really glad I didn’t shoot this guy.

Maurice murmured words and spread his hands. Blue light issued from his palms, forming a thin veil between them and the place they had just come from. Izzy took the opportunity to catch her breath, planting her unhurt palm on her thigh as she sucked in air.

A vast section of the bayou was on fire. Flames rushed up the trunks in columns and ignited the canopy. Branches fell into the water, making hissing noises. Frantic birds took to the sky. Smoke raced along the water like fog.

“Allons!” Maurice cried, taking her hand.

The smoke raced after them, scrabbling onto the land and grabbing at Izzy’s ankles. As she ran with Maurice she looked down. Taloned claws inside the smoke reached for her. A skull face leered up at her as its jaws snapped open and tried to bite her calf.

“Demons!” Maurice shouted. “And zombies, dead ahead!”

About twenty yards before them, the bayou sloped steeply upward to form a rise. White-faced men lined the crest; their eyes were blank. Portions of their faces had rotted away. Their clothes were tattered rags.

They shambled down the embankment, sliding and falling. The next rank walked over them, smashing bones; the hand of a fallen man clasped the ankle of another, and the walker moved on, unaware.

Maurice pressed his hands together and them pulled them apart. A fireball appeared; he flung it, hard. It slammed into a zombie in a decomposed business suit, who kept walking until he fell apart, devoured by the flames.

Maurice hurtled more fireballs. Izzy gazed down at her palm to find it glowing with pure white light. She made a palm strike and aimed it at the closest rank of zombies.

Jehanne, give me power, she prayed.

Flame shot from her palm and sprayed at least half a dozen of the walking dead.

Then more vampire minions divebombed from the trees. She dropped to a crouch and aimed her palm upward. Flying at her, they ignited, shrieking as they went up in flames.

Howls rose above the terrific noise. Rising and falling in crescendos, they were the cries of her vision—the same cries she had heard when Andre leaped off the verandah.

“The wolf pack!” Maurice yelled, pointing. He was jubilant.

The zombies began to fall over like bowling pins as enormous black-and-silver-coated wolves barreled through their ranks. Leaping and snarling, the wolves raced straight for Maurice and Izzy. Izzy was alarmed, but Maurice shouted at them in French, and they gathered around them both. Then half of them—there were maybe ten—turned and faced the oncoming zombies. They snarled and pranced, eager for prey.

The others dove into the smoky fog, attacking the creatures—demons—hiding there. As Izzy looked over her shoulder, a wolf tossed a demon into the air. The demon reminded her of pictures of French gargoyles she had seen—its face distorted, twin horns curling from its forehead, leathery wings flapping and hind legs kicking at nothing as it tried to fly away. Too injured, it fell to earth, and the wolf pounced.

Behind the zombies, a fog boiled up, churning and rolling over itself. It was tinged with blue, and it reminded Izzy of the fog she had seen in her dream, when she had first laid eyes on Jean-Marc.

For a moment she dared to hope that she was about to see him again, magically restored. But as she and Maurice continued to bombard the zombies with fire, the blue fog coalesced into a figure—the same one she had seen before. The color bleached away to gunmetal, and this time the figure spoke aloud.

Izzy couldn’t make out the words, but beside her Maurice laughed and said, “We’re saved!”

“Good!” she shouted at him, laughing too.

From behind them a gush of blue light arced into the air and hit the line of zombies, all of a piece. The creatures flew into the air, skulls and clavicles and rib cages shattering into hundreds of fragments. They burst apart, raining dust.

The werewolves ran back toward Izzy and Maurice, their howls like cheers of victory. They flashed through the curtain of zombie dust and approached the hill where they had first appeared.

“Georges!” Maurice yelled, waving.

Izzy spotted him. Georges was slogging onto the shore, his submachine gun slung over his back. He was sopping wet, and his face was slick with blood.

He trotted up to Izzy and Maurice, said, “Pardon, madame, but I never thought I would see you again,” and kissed Izzy hard. She tasted his blood, but she didn’t care. She kissed him back, lustily, rejoicing that he had survived. That all three of them had survived.

Then Maurice slapped him on the back and the two embraced. They spoke in French and roared with laughter.

The enormous gray figure hung in the sky. The trio stumbled up the embankment toward it, kicking up layers of zombie dust.

Now they stood on the hill, Izzy leaning against a tree as she tried to catch her breath. The figure, floating above them like a gray cloud in the field of stars, inclined its head toward them.

Without a sound and without warning, it vanished into nothingness.

Although Izzy cried out in surprise, neither man seemed to be perturbed by the event.

“Et voilà,” Maurice said, pointing.

Izzy looked down. In the moonlight she could make out several cabins and figures racing around them as the wolves pursued them. A silver wolf leaped onto one figure, throwing it onto its back, and Izzy had to look away. Other figures fled into the trees; the wolves were close behind.

Georges and Maurice began to slid down the steep incline, Maurice saying to Izzy, “Please, wait there.”

The hell she would. She pushed off, sliding as best she could after them, but her reserves were spent. Exhaustion made her sloppy; she fell more distance down the hill than she actually slid. She was grateful for her protective clothing.

From her vantage point above them, she watched the men’s progress. Preceded by two wolves, they dashed into one of the cabins. They were inside a long time. When they came out again, a man was slung between them. He was wearing a suit. His head drooped forward, and he could barely walk.

When she approached, Maurice looked at her wryly and said, “You’re no better at following orders than Jean-Marc.”

As he spoke, he and Georges eased the man down onto the wooden porch. He was dark-skinned, like Georges, and deep cuts criss-crossed his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were puffy, nearly swollen shut.

When he saw Izzy, he brightened.

“He did it,” he said in heavily accented English, his words slurred. “Jean-Marc got you to New Orleans in one piece.”

She guessed he was Alain de Devereaux. He looked nothing like Jean-Marc. “Yes,” she replied, “he did it.”

 

Deep within the bayou, Georges and Maurice debriefed Alain. They described Izzy’s arrival and her presentation at the elaborate state dinner.

“Then the mansion was attacked,” Georges told Alain.

Alain nodded. “Oui, I know. My kidnappers were in on it. Followers of Le Fils. They fully expected to take the mansion. When the bokor, Esposito, was killed, they were shocked.” Alain smiled at Izzy. “You killed him. My congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she replied, finding no joy in the killing, just grim satisfaction, and the knowledge that it had served only as a reprieve, not an ending.

“Were they Malchances?” Maurice asked Alain. “The ones who kidnapped you? How did it happen?”

Alain wearily shook his head. “I was leaving the mansion to speak to Gelineau about madame’s arrival. When I left the compound, I was attacked with heavy mortar fire.”

“They got through your wards?” Georges asked, clearly shocked. When Alain nodded, he said, “Did you recognize anyone?”

“Non. They were masked. Did you find Matthieu?” Alain asked.

“Non,” Georges said.

“Merde.” Alain’s face was slack with grief. “Matthieu was my driver,” he told Izzy. “He can’t have been in on it.”

“But the enemy got through the wards,” Maurice argued. “Devereaux wards. If they had an inside man…” He trailed off, perhaps seeing Alain’s despair.

“I’m so sorry,” Izzy told Alain. “Maybe he’ll be found.”

No one replied, and she realized none of them expected to see Matthieu again.

“Gelineau,” Georges said, spitting out the name like a curse. “What about him? He knew you were coming to see him. Was he in on it?”

“I don’t know,” Alain said.

“They found some fragments of Esposito,” Izzy told him. “I tried to participate in the reading but I got sick or…I don’t know. I wound up unconscious. Michel went with a search party to find you at a convent. I had a vision that you were here.”

“A powerful vision, for which I thank you.” Alain looked to Izzy, cocking his head as he gazed at her with large, sad brown eyes. “I hope it won’t alarm you if I tell you that my cousin half hoped he wouldn’t find you.”

“No,” she said. “I’m well past the alarmed stage.” She turned her attention to Maurice and Georges. Maurice was stanching the blood on Georges’ forehead with a flow of blue energy from his fingertips.

“Before I go anywhere with any of you, I want to know exactly who you are. And who Louise and Mathilde were.”

Georges said, “Our House would never consent to allowing Jean-Marc and Alain to come to New Orleans alone. We’re undercover special ops assigned to guard the regent and his cousin.”

Maurice took up the thread. “When all this happened yesterday—Alain’s disappearance, the attack, Jean-Marc’s injuries—we went on high alert. Then Louise handpicked Mathilde, Bernard and Hugues for this mission. We already had cause to believe that Louise was up to something. So we took out Bernard and Hugues—we couldn’t get to Mathilde—and used glamours to impersonate them. We don’t know the details of the plot, but your trip out of the mansion was intended to be one way.”

“Took them out,” she repeated.

“Yes.” He gazed at her without blinking.

More deaths. The world of the Gifted was filled with them.

“Why didn’t Jean-Marc tell me there were other Devereaux nearby?” she asked.

Bernard hesitated. It was Alain who answered. “My cousin Jean-Marc is a very circumspect man. Maybe he thought they would be able to protect you better if they were incognito.”

“Then there are Devereauxes guarding him right now,” she said. “And guarding my mother?”

“And your mother,” Alain assured her. “From a distance. But maybe that should change.”

She sighed. If she had known that, she would have done this whole thing differently. She would have contacted them and conferred with them and ferreted out what to do.

She said, “Why didn’t they come to me after Jean-Marc was hurt?”

“He must have told them not to,” Alain said.

“Must have? You’re the regent’s cousin and you don’t know?”

“Hélas,” Alain said, with a shrug that reminded her of Jean-Marc.

That seemed so wrong. She remembered Le Fils’s words: They’re playing you. I will protect you in New York.

And yet, Le Fils’s own minions had viciously attacked her and Jean-Marc back in New York.

Maybe it wasn’t me they were after. Maybe it was Jean-Marc. Maybe something else is going on that I know nothing about.

Who was telling her the truth?

What was the truth?

D eep in the bayou, the whirr of helicopter rotors startled Izzy. Against the black satin sky, a pair of running lights winked in the darkness, and beyond that pair, the silhouette of a stubby plane whisked across the moon like a black bat.

“They’re coming to put out the fire,” Alain said. “I hope Mayor Gelineau doesn’t find out what really started it. He’s this close to dissolving the politesse with the Bouvards.”

“Michel mentioned he’s not very fond of them. Us,” she amended.

“No, he’s not,” he said. “He thinks the Flames are weak and divisive. He needs someone stronger to handle all the supernaturals in New Orleans.”

As if the effort of speaking was too much, Alain sucked in his breath. The two operatives put their hands on his shoulders. Indigo blue glowed from their palms.

“What did they do to you, monsieur?” Georges asked Alain.

“Not too much. A few blows. They were going to use me as a sacrifice, so they wanted to keep me in one piece,” Alain told them, as the muscles in his face relaxed. The Devereaux’s ministrations appeared to be taking effect. He shook his head. “Their arrogance was remarkable. They honestly didn’t believe you would find me.”

The men’s answering smiles were hard and angry. “They don’t know the Devereauxes,” Maurice said. “They’re used to the Bouvards.”

Then his smile faded as he regarded Izzy. “Pardonnez-moi, madame.”

She moved on to more immediate concerns. “A girl came with me from New York. Her name is Sauvage,” she said. “Her goth name, anyway. They put a glamour on her so people wouldn’t know I’d left the mansion.”

The men frowned in disbelief. Alain said, “A Bouvard glamour?”

“Yes,” she said. “It wasn’t very good.”

Georges snorted. “They should have made a fabricant.”

“We—they—were worried about what would happen when the fabricant started to wear off,” she conceded.

“A Bouvard glamour, a Bouvard fabricant,” Alain observed, sounding more than a little tentative. He looked at Izzy. “Your family’s magical powers are much weaker than ours, and those of the Malchances. We don’t know why. Jean-Marc and I have been investigating it.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. So far, their magic had seemed plenty strong to her.

The plane let loose a shower of some kind of powdery substance. Izzy guessed that it was flame retardant.

“We should get out of here,” Alain said. “But of course, first we must give thanks to the vassal.”

The three Devereauxes lowered their heads again and soundlessly moved their lips. Then Maurice pulled out his knife and sliced across his palm. Blood welled along the cut and began to drip into the dirt.

He passed the knife to Georges, who did the same, and then to Alain.

The three men clenched their fists, making the blood drip faster. They raised them and spoke in a singsong language.

As the blood splattered on the porch, a wisp of smoke rose from the wooden slats. The men wafted it toward their faces with their hands, inhaling it. Then it disappeared.

The cuts in their hands sealed up. There was no trace of the wounds on any of their hands.

Alain said to Izzy, “The vassal was that figure you saw. He serves our patron, the Gray King. I summoned him, and he came. He showed you where I was.” He cocked his head. “It’s not often that others of another House can see or hear him. You are a remarkable woman.”

“Just lucky that way,” she said.

Alain made as if to get up. “It’s time to go,” he said.

“We can’t take her back to the mansion,” Georges said.

Georges and Maurice helped Alain to his feet. He winced, rubbing his left shoulder and rolling his neck in a circle.

“I think we need to split up,” Maurice ventured. “At least one of us needs to get back to the mansion and reconnoiter with the rest of the ops team.”

“Please see if Sauvage is all right,” Izzy said. “And her boyfriend.”

“We also need to find Michel and his party,” Alain said. “I wonder if he masterminded this whole thing. I swear, he would take the Bouvard ring off my cousin’s dead body if he could.”

She cleared her throat. “Actually, he did take it. And he gave it me. I’ve got it around my neck.”

Alain raised a brow, and she flushed, feeling unaccountably guilty. As if she had taken something that wasn’t hers.

“I wonder if we should bother trying to read Louise and Mathilde’s bodies,” Georges said. “It doesn’t sound as if we can trust D’Artagnon.”

“They probably burned up in the fire,” Maurice ventured.

“Oui, monsieur, they did. And they were tasty,” said a silky voice from the shadows.

“Who’s there?” Izzy shouted, whirling around.

“Caresse,” Alain said, smiling. “She’s Andre’s mate. And a friend.”

“Have you found Andre?” Izzy cried.

Branches bobbed; red eyes glowed from the darkness. They disappeared. A few seconds later a sinewy, naked woman with dark skin, golden eyes and platinum-blond hair sauntered into view.

“C’est la jolie maîtresse,” she said. “Oui, Isabelle. He was badly hurt, but he’s getting better. We have sent for a bokor to hurry it up. She’s coming to our place.”

Her features softened as an idea came to her. “We could shelter madame from all her enemies there. You can leave some bodyguards and make some more magic there, oui?” she asked Alain. “Make some healing magic for Andre, too?”

“The thought to take madame to your camp had occurred to me,” Alain admitted. “But it could be very dangerous.”

“We know it’s dangereuse in the bayou,” Caresse retorted. “It would be so much better if we could shelter her in the mansion. But the Bouvards do not welcome us. C’est la vie. They do not welcome her, either.”

“You’re very clever, Caresse,” Alain said. “You give madame a place to stay, which of course must be heavily guarded. And so, your wolf pack is protected from Le Fils and Esposito’s henchmen.”

She winked at him. “It is clear to me why you are the diplomat.”

Izzy took a breath and said, “Did you…did you really eat them?”

Caresse chuckled. “What do you think, ma belle?”

I think you didn’t answer my question, Izzy thought.

Caresse swung back around and whistled. A half-standing, hunched wolf form padded from the same dark place she had appeared and stared at Izzy. The black fur, the almond-shaped, golden eyes….

“Andre!” she cried, running toward the wolf. She rose on her tiptoes and threw her arms around its neck.

“Not my Andre,” Caresse said, amused. “A pack mate. We call him Lucky. When Andre cannot run, he is our alpha.”

“Oh.” As Izzy took a step backward, the creature’s eyes glittered with good humor.

Another darted from the darkness. Then another slunk from around a tree trunk; a fourth appeared behind it. A fifth. These were more like regular wolves. Of all of them, Lucky was the most like Andre—something more than a wolf, something like a monster.

Caresse said, “We should go to our place, us. Now. The swamp is full of Le Fils’s vampires and demons. More are on their way.” She beckoned Izzy and the three Devereauxes to follow her.

Izzy said, “Shouldn’t we perform wards, or—”

“We’ve been performing wards the entire time we’ve been with you,” Georges said. “We won’t stop now.”

“As for us, we’ll travel strong,” Caresse said.

She chuckled low in her throat as she dropped to all fours. Fur sprouted along the ridge on her back. Her ears stretched; her entire head elongated. She was transforming into a wolf before Izzy’s eyes, as Andre had.

But where Andre had changed into something else, Caresse became a full wolf. She gazed over her shoulder at Izzy and chuffed like a dog.

Beside Izzy, the three Devereauxes were also changing into wolves.

Glamours? she wondered. Or were they actually werewolves?

Then she looked down at her own body and saw a strange superimposition, like a ghostly reflection, of paws and fur…paws that were padding along the bayou’s damp ground. She touched her face with human hands, her own fingertips. But when she looked down, she saw paws, on the ground. A powerful glamour indeed.

And so I’m on the run again, she thought. I haven’t stopped running for over two weeks. And people—or things—have been trying to kill me for over two weeks.

When will this end? And how?

 

Dawn was washing the darkness from the sky when Izzy and the others came within sight of the werewolves’ compound. The smoke from the bayou fire was dissipating. The whump-whump-whump of the copter rotors had left the sky, as well.

Slowly each wolf transformed back into a human being, and Izzy recognized the pack from New York City. Izzy was startled to realize that Claire, the woman with the cornrows who had served on occasion as Jean-Marc’s driver, was the silver wolf that had trotted beside her during the night.

Claire had been one of the werewolves to sneak into the DeMarcos home and corner John Cratty. Rather than allow the wolves to rip him to shreds, Cratty had ended his own life with a bullet from Izzy’s Medusa. It had been a horrible, ghoulish undertaking—and yet Izzy was incredibly glad to see Claire. Izzy was cast adrift in a sea of strangers, and Claire was a familiar face.

As she assumed her human shape, Claire grinned at Izzy and said, “Ça va, jolie?”

“I’ve been better,” Izzy answered.

Claire made a moue and patted Izzy’s shoulder. “We’ll treat you well here. Not so much like a queen as like a friend. You saved Jean-Marc’s life. That counts big with us.”

“Thank you,” Izzy said. “But it was really Andre who made it happen.”

“Well, he is taking a lot of the credit,” Claire replied with a lusty chuckle.

“Tais-toi,” Caresse told Claire, but her voice was warm. “He does go on, that man,” she said, grinning. “He can’t wait to see you, chére.”

A tall wooden fence lined with bones and skulls and painted with symbols—swirls, stars, skulls, figures of people—marked the perimeter of the werewolves’ compound. Izzy wasn’t sure what they were bones and skulls of, and she didn’t want to know.

The three Devereauxes stopped there. Alain explained that they had placed Devereaux wards around the fence upon first arriving in New Orleans, and they periodically refreshed them. They were going to do that now—and add more, as well.

The werewolves lived in Cajun shacks along the banks of the bayou. Izzy wished she could call them picturesque, but they were ramshackle structures patched together out of mismatched pieces of wood, and topped with corrugated tin roofs. The closest she could get was “functional.”

Caresse took Izzy’s hand and said, “Let’s go see my man, you and me, chére.”

As they neared a shack hanging over the water, a toddler in a diaper and a T-shirt that said I Love NY appeared in the doorway. He burst into tears when he saw Caresse and held his arms out to her.

“You,” she said lovingly as she hoisted him up and settled him against her hip. “All night I’m gone and I’ll bet you never cried one time.”

“He never stopped crying,” said a familiar voice.

The voice issued from the overstuffed depths of a red velvet sofa, incongruous in the extreme in the rustic shack. Andre was lying on it, his wildman hair streaming over his shoulders, a colorful quilt pulled up under his arms. He was wearing several necklaces of small bags, and a pile of small stone hearts painted red were gathered in his lap.

On a chair beside the sofa, surrounded by colorful glasses containing candles, a wizened, dark-skinned woman in a black kerchief sliced through the air with a knife. She was dressed in a shapeless tie-dyed shift decorated with beads and feathers, silver charms of skulls, hands and crosses. The chair was draped with colorful strings of fabric. Incense wafted from a mosaic censor at her feet.

Her gestures were identical to those of Michel and D’Artagnon, when they had cut the evil emanating from the box containing Julius’s remains.

Izzy reached around her neck for Andre’s gris-gris, walked over to the sofa, and draped it over Andre’s head. Then she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. The woman completely ignored her as she continued to slice the air.

“Andre, thank God,” Izzy breathed, and she knelt down beside him on the floor. “Thank you,” she amended. “You saved the day.”

“Ma belle,” he said happily. “Heard we won.”

She nodded. “But Jean-Marc was badly wounded. He was still unconscious when I left.”

“If anyone can pull through, it’s Jean-Marc. He’s a very strong man,” Andre said. “For a while I thought he might be a werewolf. But no such luck.”

“Claire was disappointed when she first met him, too,” Caresse said with a lilt. “Of course, she was in heat at the time.” She was carrying a glass. Izzy realized she was parched, and started to reach for it gratefully. But Caresse handed it to the old woman, her voice low and reverent as she spoke to her in French.

“That one, she’s always in heat.” Andre chuckled.

The woman gulped the water down noisily. It dribbled down her chin and splashed onto the bodice of her dress. She kept drinking.

“They were attacked in the bayou,” Caresse told Andre. “It was Le Fils.”

“Vraiment,” Andre agreed. He looked at Izzy. “The worse shape the House of the Flames is in, the better for that vampire, him. He’s attacking tourists now, barely trying to hide his tracks. The voodoo drums are talking. They say he’s up to something in that old convent.”

“A convent? That’s where Michel went to search for Alain,” Izzy told them.

“Probably more like Michel went there to join Le Fils,” Andre said, making a spitting sound. “Don’t trust Michel de Bouvard, chére. He’s a bad man. And that Bouvard mansion is a bad place.”

He and Caresse crossed themselves. Izzy did, too.

Caresse said to Andre, “We have to get Jean-Marc out of there, mon amour.”

“Oui,” said Andre. “Chére,” he said to Izzy. “You’re their lady. You can tell them that you want—”

The sound of a crashing glass cut him off.

Caresse pointed at the old woman. “’Dieu!” she shouted. “Look at Mamaloi!”

Izzy whirled around on her knees, narrowly missing a chunk of glass that had clattered to the wooden floor. The old woman had dropped the glass. Her back was ramrod straight and her head was tilted slightly back. Her arms were flung to each side, as if she had been crucified.

Her eyes were milky white.

Her mouth dropped open and a low, sinister, very masculine voice rumbled out of it. Her lips didn’t move, and yet the voice poured out of her mouth. The words were French.

Caresse said, “The loa says, ‘Le Fils is the little fish. The gator uses him for bait. Once you’re in the water, he’ll snap you in two!’”

“Who is the gator?” Izzy asked, wondering what a loa was.

Caresse spoke in French, directing her questions to the old woman. The voice poured out of the puckered, wizened mouth as if in answer, but the woman’s lips still did not move. Though she kept her stiff position, her milky, unfocused eyes seemed to settle on Izzy, and cold fear swept up Izzy’s spine. What was looking at her? What was talking to her? And how did it know the answers to her questions?

“‘Catch the little fish. He’ll take you to the gator,’” Caresse translated.

“But the gator will snap her in two,” Andre argued. “She don’t want that, Caresse. Make that loa explain, him.”

“Where is Le Fils?” Izzy asked. “And Michel?”

Caresse spoke again to the old woman.

“Michel is in the French quarter. He is fine.”

The voice poured out, and Andre grunted. His face turned gray and a muscle jumped n his cheek. Caresse remained silent and he said, “Tell her, bébé. She needs to know.”

“Le Fils is killing Matthieu de Bouvard des Flammes,” Caresse said. “Alain’s chauffeur. Right now. This moment.” Her eyes widened as the gravelly voice croaked more words. “Mon Dieu, Andre. You hear that? He is torturing him to death. As a sacrifice.”

Afraid she was going to be sick, Izzy closed her eyes and pressed her fist over her mouth. “Can we stop it? Can we help him with magic?” she asked. “Alain!” she shouted, rising.

Caresse put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down to the floor.

“Don’t yell, chére. This is Mamaloi’s loa,” Caresse said again. “The voodoo god is speaking through her. It would show disrespect if you left the room. The loa might stop speaking altogether.”

Alain, venez ici, Izzy thought, slipping into French. Vite.

He heard her, and rushed into the room, followed by Maurice. The two stood still, listening. Alain swayed on his feet, blackly silent. Maurice swore under his breath and asked a question in French. Izzy heard the word Malchances.

“He is asking Mamaloi’s loa if the Malchances are working with Le Fils,” Andre told Izzy.

There was no answer.

“She’s afraid to say,” Maurice ventured.

“We don’t know that,” Caresse countered. “Could be the loa doesn’t know.”

Maurice said to Caresse, “Please, ask her about Esposito. He was a bokor, but he was involved in the Dark Arts. Ask her loa to explain—”

The deep voice inside Mamaloi rose to a shriek as her entire body convulsed. She flopped in her chair like a dying fish; Izzy reached out to help her, but Andre grabbed her biceps and said, “Stay away, chére.”

Foam bubbled from her mouth as her body shook and shuddered. Then she collapsed, falling back in her chair. Her head lolled backward, and her breath rattled out of her thin body as if she were dying.

“Mamaloi!” Caresse cried, putting her arms around her. She cradled the old woman’s inert body and said, “Mamaloi, reviens-ici. Mamaloi, tu va bien, eh?”

There was a moment when everyone held their collective breaths. Then Mamaloi opened her eyes and cleared her throat. Her eyes were back to normal as she blinked at the group staring at her, each in turn. Then she said to Caresse, “J’ai faim.”

Caresse smiled at the woman and stroked her cheek. “She says she’s hungry,” she told Izzy.

“Guess her loa didn’t want to talk about Esposito,” Maurice said, sounding frustrated.

“Or couldn’t. Or was afraid to.” Alain’s voice was strained with despair. “Madame,” he said to Mamaloi and continued on in rapid French. The old lady’s natural voice was papery soft as she replied.

“She don’t remember any of it,” Andre told Izzy. “She can’t tell us any more.”

“Can you do some kind of ritual to call her loa back?” Izzy asked Alain.

He shook his head. “We don’t do voudon,” he said in a strangled voice. He was agonized, and she felt for him.

“But if Ungifted can practice it,” she argued, “there must be—” she searched for the right word “—instructions, set ways of doing things.”

“We’re Gifted,” Alain said, as if that should satisfy her curiosity. He turned away and went back outside.

It didn’t satisfy her curiosity, and she was about to pursue the matter, when Caresse said, “Well, we don’t do it, either. And don’t bother Mamaloi. She’s done, oui?”

She patted the old lady’s cheek. The woman laid her own hand over Caresse’s and said something to her that made Caresse laugh. Then Andre’s mate straightened and walked briskly across the cabin to a propane stove.

“Mamaloi is hungry.” She reached to a shelf above the stove and retrieved a cast-iron skillet and looked hard at Izzy. “You may not feel like eating, but you had better, jolie maîtresse. Ooh-la-la, you had better. You need to feed your blood.”

“For the gator?” Izzy asked.

“Oui,” Caresse answered. She didn’t smile.

T he werewolves were hungry.

Caresse put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and an Emeril apron, then got down to cooking a Cajun feast—gumbo, crayfish and hush puppies. Claire and a third woman named Felice pitched in.

Izzy began slogging from one moment to the next, with no blood sugar and no energy. Evidently, as a Gifted, she had reserves of energy denied regular human beings. She began to view the ability to collapse as a luxury denied her. She offered halfheartedly to help with the cooking and was relieved when they turned her down.

Instead, Alain enlisted several of the werewolves to pour big plastic buckets of hot water into a cracked porcelain tub sitting on the back porch. Alain explained to Izzy that she needed to wash the magical residue off her body. Unless she got rid of it, she would fall prey to anxiety and probably depression. Jean-Marc had told her the same thing in New York. She had ignored his advice—and paid the price exactly as Alain described it.

The three Devereaux men would make use of a makeshift shower, but Alain wanted Izzy to soak for a while, as a precaution. Hence, the tub.

As he turned to go, Izzy said to Alain, “I’m so sorry about Matthieu. If there’s anything I can do…”

He opened his mouth as if to reply. When he remained silent, she asked, “Is there something?”

He shrugged. “You are a de Bouvard. Your House is known for its ability to heal. But this wound for Matthieu…I think I’ll carry it awhile, in honor of him.”

She dipped her head. She wasn’t sure she knew how to heal a wound like that. She reached out and took his hand. “I am so sorry.” The words seemed so ineffectual, so superficial.

“It’s not so much his death, as how he died,” Alain murmured. “From what the loa told Mamaloi, they didn’t take his soul, so there is at least that comfort.” He massaged his temples, then dropped his hands to his sides with a sigh. “I need to shower. Be sure to soak a long time. You’re not used to the power of your Gift.”

“I will. Merci,” she said.

Alain left her, and Claire arrived with a basket of herbs. The young boy who had gone into her house to assist with the killing of the dirty cop, John Cratty, who had been in league with Esposito, sat at her feet playing an accordion while Claire sprinkled the hot water with the herbs. Izzy marveled at the boy’s cheerful innocence. In New York, he had witnessed two deaths.

“How old are you?” she asked him, when he stopped playing and smiled up at her, awaiting her approval.

He frowned. Didn’t he speak English? She tried again and said, “That was very jolie. Thank you.”

“He’s maybe nine,” Claire said, crumbling dried lavender between her fingers. “His parents died when he was just a tit-sucker.” She gazed fondly at the boy. “We don’t talk about it much, but we think it was Ungifted hunters. Out for sport, didn’t know the difference.” She sighed as she rubbed her palms together to scatter the last of the herbs on the water.

She found a dried rose petal in her basket and tossed it into the tub. It fluttered like a butterfly as it alighted on the surface. “All that’s gone, now that the Devereauxes are here. The Flames never protected us.”

“But aren’t they…aren’t we supposed to serve as protectors of the supernaturals and the Ungifted?” Izzy asked, still back at the boy’s parents’ having been shot by hunters.

Claire snorted. “Show me a Gifted besides Jean-Marc who would protect a werewolf,” she said.

“My House should. Don’t we protect all the supernaturals and Ungifted around here?”

“That’s on a piece of paper,” Claire informed her, sniffing. “Never been in real life.”

Izzy gave a start as the boy touched the accordion keys and sound blatted out.

“Now Jean-Marc, that one, he loves the loupes-garoux.” Claire grinned, showing big, white teeth. “He wants to be like us. All them rules, all the pressure. I think it gets to him. He’s a wildman in his heart. Wants to run free.”

Izzy filed that away. “He’s awfully uptight,” she said.

Claire raised a brow. “Like you.” She flashed her big white teeth at Izzy. “You want to become one of us?”

Izzy’s face tingled. “Ah…”

Laughter bubbled out of Claire as she gestured for the boy to get to his feet. “There’s no way to become a werewolf except you have a maman or a papa who is one already,” she said. “Now, vampires, whole other story. If they bite you and suck you dry, you come back.” She nodded. Then she reached behind the tub and showed Izzy two big plastic bottles, one clear and one a frosted green. “Shampoo. Conditioner.”

“Thank you,” Izzy said.

“De rien, chére.”

Claire hefted the boy’s accordion over her shoulder and put her arm around him, leading him into the shack.

Izzy was so tired that her legs wobbled as she got into the tub. She tilted back her head, drenching her hair. She leaned her head against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. She began to cry, long and deep and hard, as the magical residue washed off her skin. Each sob contracted her entire body. It was almost orgasmic. She understood it was a release after all the horror, and she let it happen.

Jean-Marc, she sent out. Are you conscious? Are you safe?

She shut her eyes tightly, focused and hopeful, listening between sobs. If there could be a sign, any sign—his heartbeat, a single, whispered word. But she heard nothing.

 

After Izzy dried off, Claire brought her a pair of wool socks, a jeans skirt and a ribbed, olive sweater. No bra, no underwear. As Izzy refastened her crucifix and the rose quartz necklace with the signet ring around her neck, Claire refilled the tub and threw in all Izzy’s clothes. She whistled at the body armor and asked her if she might consider outfitting the werewolves with some “for the coming troubles.”

“Oh, yes,” Alain said, as she conferred after the feast with Andre, the two operatives, and him. Alain had eaten very little; he was still quite subdued. “Troubles are on their way.”

They sat on the porch, Andre and Izzy in rickety but serviceable rocking chairs. Alain was seated at their feet on the uneven wooden porch, in a red-and-gray-plaid wool bathrobe. Izzy had tried to give up her chair to him, as he seemed to be in physical as well as emotional pain, but he refused.

The shadows were lengthening as the day stretched toward afternoon. The heavy canopy of trees rustled. Below them, at the water’s edge, cattails jittered. There were splashes in the water—animals, birds, reptiles, Andre had assured her. But she had no idea why there couldn’t also be bokors and demons traveling through the spooky bayou. Though Georges and several of the wolf brothers were escorting Mamaloi back to her own cabin in the swamp, Izzy feared for her. The voodoo woman had given them important information. Would their enemies punish her for it?

Maurice was on his way back to the mansion. After Georges had delivered Mamaloi to her home, he would join him. They were to report back what they found to Alain as soon as possible. Then Alain and Izzy would plan their next move.

Inside the cabin, someone began to play the boy’s accordion. The bouncy zydeco provided an ironic backdrop to the heavy conversation on the porch.

“Troubles are here,” Izzy emphasized, feeling alone and frightened. She wanted to call her men—Pat, Gino and Big Vince. She didn’t know how much time had elapsed since she’d last spoken to them. The terrible lie that her life had become tore at her. She wished with all her soul that she was at a hotel in Florida, relaxing in the sun, which was what she had told them to explain her sudden absence.

“Oui,” Alain agreed. “Troubles are here.”

“Your assistant is very worried about you,” Izzy remembered to tell him.

“Pierre’s a good man, for a Bouvard.” He gave her a dry smile and didn’t bother to apologize for the mild insult. “I told Maurice and Georges to talk to him.”

Then he wiped his face with both hands and flattened his palms against his knees. “I’ve got to get some rest. You should too, madame. When I hear back from our men, we’ll decide what to do next.”

“All right,” she said. She guessed the two Devereaux ops were “her” men, too. “And please, call me Izzy,” she said. At his grimace, she said, “Or Isabelle. Your cousin does.”

Alain smiled gently as he shook his head. “My cousin is a different breed,” he replied, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d sooner call you…Blanche Neige. That’s Snow White in French. Escaping the huntsman in the enchanted forest…” He sighed, unable to continue his joke.

“You’re worried about Jean-Marc.”

“I am. And you. I’m worried about you.” He exhaled, letting the smile go altogether, as if she and he were much too aware of the situation to bother with false optimism. “But we should rest while we can.”

Just then, swathed in his quilt in his rocking chair, Andre emitted a long, deep growl. He was snoring. Izzy and Alain both laughed softly. It felt incredibly good to laugh. And so strange.

 

Detective Pat Kittrell dried off, folded the burnt-orange towel, hung it on the towel rack and padded naked out of the bathroom. He pulled back the bedspread, the blanket and the sheet and lay down. His skin was warm and moist, droplets of water clinging to his chest hairs, the whorl at his navel and the soft blond thatch surrounding his penis and balls.

He was already partially erect, and as his hand wrapped around the shaft, he closed his eyes and whispered, “Iz.”

His hand began to move.

So very many thousands of miles away, deeply asleep, Izzy moaned, longing for him. He sensed her, and his back arched slightly off the bed, his pelvis thrusting forward and up, as if to penetrate his invisible bedmate.

“Pat,” she whispered, straddling him. He was long, hard, and he filled her completely as she lowered herself on top of him. He molded his hands around her hips, guiding her as they began to move together. She clasped his wrists, feeling his racing pulse as it throbbed against her thumbs. Then it traveled to her rib cage, and beat inside her chest.

His heart was her heart.

“Isabelle,” he said, and she looked down at him.

At Jean-Marc, beneath her, filling her, moving his hips inside her open, moist thighs, taking her.

 

Izzy’s eyes flew open in the darkness of the werewolves’ cabin.

Oh, my God. I was dreaming about them both.

Then she lifted her head and saw a figure standing at the entrance to the cabin. The door hung open, revealing the stars and the man. She couldn’t make out his features, but she knew his silhouette, and now she knew his heartbeat, as its thrusting rhythm picked up inside her own body.

Jean-Marc stood alone in a shimmering aura of blue light. He was wearing battle gear, with a submachine gun slung across his chest. His long, wild hair was caught back in a ponytail. A terrible anger came off him in waves, and she remembered the first rule she had made for herself when she had met him: Never piss off Jean-Marc.

But he was here, and he was alive. Joyfully she raised herself off the sofa and got to her feet. She wanted to throw her arms around him and thank God for him. Every part of her body and soul responded to his presence.

She hurried toward him. And yet she didn’t put her arms around him as she longed to. She stood inches away from him as he stared at her with his dark eyes, his heart pounding in her chest. In the void between them she could smell his scent. His body heat blazed against her face.

“You can’t be here,” she managed. “You just had major surgery.” She wondered what his chest looked like. She wondered how it had been for him to wake up and find out everything that had happened.

“I’m a Gifted,” he said. “I heal fast.”

But if you had died, I would never have gotten over it.

“I’m well enough,” Jean-Marc replied, and she swallowed, wondering if he had heard her thoughts.

Then he took Izzy’s arm and jerked his head toward the front porch.

“Allez vite,” he snapped.

As relieved as she was to see him, she was thrown by the way he manhandled her, the way a cop would a recalcitrant suspect.

“Hey,” she protested as he moved off the porch and stomped across the dirt courtyard. It was still dark out; she heard frogs and crickets as she padded along beside him in her bare feet.

When they had reached the wooden gate, Jean-Marc released her and whirled on her, stabilizing the Uzi with his right hand.

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” he demanded, shaking with fury. “Why didn’t you stay in your mother’s chamber?”

She remembered that that was the last thing he had said to her before he was wounded. He’d been yelling at her to leave the battle, go to safety. She understood that mentally he was picking up where he had left off.

“A lot has happened,” she began.

“I know what’s happened. Maurice and Georges briefed me.” Then his expression softened as he ticked his gaze from her to his cousin, who was running toward them.

“Thanks be to the Gray King,” Alain breathed, clasping Jean-Marc’s shoulder, then enfolding him in a sort of hug, made awkward by Jean-Marc’s armor and weaponry. Touching him, welcoming him back when Izzy had not.

“Grâce au Roi Gris, Alain. Until I was debriefed, I was afraid you were dead.”

Alain gestured to Izzy. “Then you know that I owe my life to this brave woman. She led a rescue party to find me.”

“I know that she left the mansion in the company of two assassins,” Jean-Marc retorted. His voice was harsh, his features sharp. There was no softness for Izzy as he glared at her. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Mon cousin,” Alain protested, placing a hand on Jean-Marc’s shoulder, “she’s been through a lot.”

“She could have spared herself a lot,” Jean-Marc said. He rested his hands on the Uzi, waiting for her to account for herself.

Izzy ground her teeth. She was so angry at him…and yet, her body was responding to him as if she hadn’t snapped out of her dream.

I was dreaming about Pat. And he …intruded. He is not my lover. Pat is.

And yet, despite every instinct, she was awash with desire for Jean-Marc. Carnal, emotional. She wanted to reach forward and touch his cheek, his jaw, to sink against him and reassure herself that he was here and alive. It was horribly confusing.

Then suddenly, just as she had imagined doing to him, he reached out, not to touch her, but to grab her. He whipped the Uzi off and laid it on the ground. Then, as she gasped in protest, he fitted her body against his, cupping the back of her head and laying her head against his chest. She heard his heart beating there, as if it had been returned to him, no longer in her care. She felt his erection against her belly, and her body seized.

“It is a natural thing,” he said calmly, and she wondered if he was talking about his obvious desire for her.

He pressed the fingertips of his free hand against her forehead. Then she smelled oranges and roses, and felt a soothing warmth spreading throughout her veins. He was calming her with magic. Enchanting her.

In a lower, kinder tone he said, “Let us begin again, eh?”

“I will if you will,” she told him. She was literally in no position to argue.

“They said you were having visions. Tell me about them.”

As she had in the past, she wondered now if he really cared about her at all. He had already told her that his life was built on the performance of his duty. Had he left his sickbed and raced into the bayou because she mattered to him personally, or because it was his responsibility to deliver her in one piece to the House of the Flames? Was he soothing her now so she would be coherent for her own debriefing?

She took another moment. Misreading her hesitation, Jean-Marc released her, holding her at arm’s length as he studied her face.

“Can’t you remember them?” he asked, dropping his hands to his sides. “Try. Concentrate. I’ll show you how.”

Stop pushing, she wanted to tell him. Bereft of his touch, she simply leaned against the fence with its skulls and weird juju paraphernalia and said, “I’ve had a lot of visions lately. In one, I actually thought I was back in New York, on the police force. I chased Julius Esposito into the same burning building I saw my father in before you and I left New York.”

“It was all jumbled up but very real. And he was using Sauvage as bait.”

A muscle jumped in Jean-Marc’s cheek. His eyes became hooded, unreadable. He said, “Go on.”

She decided not to tell him about Pat. That was private. “That was one vision. Then when I went with Michel and D’Artagnon to read Esposito’s…fragments, I had a second vision that Alain was in the bayou.” She hesitated, unable to keep from adding, “And some other…things, just before you showed up just now.”

He blinked at her. She swore he could read her mind, see the images of Pat, naked. Of himself, making love to her. Her face hot, she looked away. “And…that’s it.”

There was a moment when no one spoke.

Then he said, “C’est ma faute,” lowering his chin against his chest in a gesture of apology. His shoulders rounded, he sighed heavily. “I tried to prepare you, but I didn’t have time.” He raised his chin, and at her questioning look, he said, “Remember how I told you that magic would be stronger here than in New York?”

“Because New York is neutral territory,” she filled in.

“Oui. It was the territory of the Borgia Family, but overnight, they disappeared. We don’t know why, and it’s been declared off-limits to everyone. There is no appreciable energy there anymore.

“But here the emanations are very strong. That’s why the de Bouvards originally settled here. New Orleans is a place rich with magical energy. And you are only learning of your powers and how to use them.” He turned his attention from her to Alain and said, “It’s a wonder she hasn’t gone crazy, n’est ce pas?”

“Oui,” Alain replied. “Certainement.”

Jean-Marc cupped Izzy’s chin. “La pauvre. Trying to understand what is happening. What is real. Whom to trust. It must be hell for you.”

He shook his head, stroking the side of her face with his thumb, an uncommonly gentle gesture for him. It mesmerized her. The dynamic had changed between them; they seemed almost like lovers, no longer mentor and student. Maybe the specter of death had taken off old masks and put on new ones.

In a hoarse whisper he said, “I let you down, Isabelle.”

She tried to clear her throat, but her mouth had gone dry. She tried to shake her head to tell him no, he hadn’t. He’d gotten hurt. He’d nearly died.

She saw that he was studying the signet ring on her rose quartz necklace and she moved her hands to unfasten it. As she wrapped her hand around the ring, he cocked his head, watching her, and said, “Keep it, Isabelle. It belongs to you.”

“It’s not mine,” she argued.

“Yet,” he said. “Not yours yet. But it is more yours than mine.”

Michel had said nearly the same thing. “You’re still the regent,” she insisted. She added, more tentatively, “Aren’t you?” You’re not abandoning me, are you?

“I am still the regent.” He molded his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze, tightening her grip around the ring. “And the regent says that you should keep it.”

Wordlessly Jean-Marc reached his fingers around her neck and refastened her necklace. Then he took a step away, putting some distance between them.

But the spell was not broken.

“What now?” she asked. Then she forced her mind to the business at hand. “What’s happening back at the mansion?”

Judging by his face, the news was bad.

“The two women guarding Sauvage left your bedroom shortly after you did and haven’t been seen since. The masquerade of the glamour fell apart, and the Bouvards assume you used the ruse to leave. Most of them think you have abandoned them.”

“Oh. There’s an idea,” she said brightly.

He smiled grimly as if to say, Wait, there’s more. “The others think that we Devereauxes have kidnapped you.”

She parsed that. “Have you?”

“There’s an idea,” he deadpanned. “After I fly to New York and risk my life to find you, and bring you back to New Orleans, then I’ll kidnap you.”

“It’s so typical of the Flames,” Alain said, shaking his head in disgust. “They always look outside for someone to blame for their situation.”

“Which situation is that?” Izzy asked, taking in both the Devereaux cousins with one gaze. “The one where Marianne, their guardienne, gets pregnant, takes off, has a baby who goes missing for twenty-six years and winds up in a coma?”

“The one where they have not prospered the way the House of the Shadows and the House of the Blood have,” Jean-Marc replied.

“The House of the Blood. The bad guys,” she said.

“Oui. The bad guys. Their magic and ours—the Devereaux, House of the Shadows—is far stronger than yours,” Jean-Marc elaborated. “I haven’t been able to figure out why. But the de Bouvards who can bring themselves to admit the truth believe it is the result of enemy magic.”

“Blanche Neige and I discussed that,” Alain said.

Jean-Marc quirked a brow. “‘Blanche Neige’? It suits her.”

Izzy colored. “Tell me the rest. How is Sauvage?”

“Gone,” he said evenly. “I sent her and her boyfriend away. They’re Ungifted and it’s too dangerous for them here.”

She was relieved yet saddened. She would miss that crazy girl. She nodded at him and said, “You were right to do it. But I wish I could have said goodbye.”

“Maybe you can contact her later, when things calm down.” After another beat, Jean-Marc added, “I’ve made a few other changes.”

“Go on,” she said warily.

“It would be easier just to show you. Come with me,” he ordered her.

He took her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers. She didn’t argue because she wanted to see what he was being so mysterious about. At least, that was what she told herself. It felt good to hold his large, warm hand. It gave her comfort and strength.

Equally curious, Alain trailed behind.

Jean-Marc made motions in front of the broad wooden gate with its bones and painted charms. It clicked open and swung outward with a squeaky creak.

“Abracadabra,” Jean-Marc said.

Izzy gaped. Her knees buckled and Jean-Marc smoothly grasped her forearm to keep her upright.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Is this for real?”

Jean-Marc’s answer was a smile.

“Bienvenue,” he said. “Welcome.”

“N icely done,” Alain told his cousin, as he, Jean-Marc and Izzy walked out of the werewolves’ camp, toward Jean-Marc’s magical creation. Beneath the silvery moonlight, a small but stately plantation-style mansion rose from among the cypresses and live oaks. It was a miniature of the Flames’ family seat—built of brick, it had two stories, fronted with three graceful stone columns. Traditional New Orleans-style iron scrollwork in a flame motif formed the balconies on both verandahs. The exquisite edifice was surrounded by flowering rose bushes and orange trees, and trellises dripping with bougainvillea and wisteria.

“For you,” Jean-Marc said to Izzy.

At least a dozen muscular men and women in dark blue body armor, blue pants, black boots and sunglasses stood at attention on the ground-floor verandah of the mansion with Uzis slung across their chests. Another dozen operatives similarly dressed all in black ringed the second-story balcony.

“Your personal guards,” Jean-Marc said. “Devereaux in blue, Bouvard in black.”

“La guardienne!” one of the men in black bellowed.

Both sets of guards presented arms, slamming the barrels of their machine guns into their palms. Then they knelt on one knee and lowered their heads.

“Vive!” they yelled.

“Not yet,” Izzy murmured, conscious that she was braless and barefoot, hadn’t brushed her teeth and was really not ready to be anyone’s commander in chief. But she held out her hands and said, “Merci, mes gendarmes.” She had no idea what she had just said.

“C’est bien, Isabelle,” Jean-Marc murmured approvingly as the troops rose and snapped back to attention. “These are the best. Except for Georges and Maurice. I left them at the de Bouvard mansion for the time being.” He looked at Alain. “I had our people break their cover. Michel is fou.”

“How naive,” Alain drawled. “Did he honestly think you and I had come to New Orleans alone?”

“So it appears, by his reaction.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “He’s an amateur.” Then he said to Izzy, “Your mother is inside. I transported her here as well.”

“Transported.”

“Brought her. I’m not that Gifted.”

Before she could ask, he added, “Her condition is unchanged. Although she is still alive, she will never wake up.”

“And the Femmes Blanches?” Izzy queried. “Are some women caring for her?”

“I asked for volunteers,” Jean-Marc answered. “There are fifty women in there, dedicated to helping you and your mother. Annette is one of them.”

She was moved. It must have been a difficult choice, to leave the relative safety of de Bouvard headquarters in favor of a location selected by the Devereaux regent.

“This is fantastique,” Alain crowed. “Finally we’re free of the Bouvards.”

That gave Izzy pause. Wasn’t the whole point of bringing her to New Orleans so she could lead the Bouvards?

With a dry chuckle, Jean-Marc said, “Michel threatened to go to the Grand Covenate. I told him I would accompany him to the Convening Chamber myself.”

“And? It’s time, don’t you think?” Alain asked.

“Of course he backed down,” Jean-Marc replied. “He trusts them even less than he trusts us.” He grew more serious. “I want to stabilize the situation and make sure Isabelle is safe. And then we’ll contact the Grand Covenate with or without Michel’s cooperation. They need to know what’s going on down here.”

As they walked down the brick path that led into the front door, Izzy looked up at him and said, “Why did you do this?”

“It’s not safe for you at the mansion,” he told her. “I’m still investigating the assassination attempt. I haven’t yet located all the guilty parties.” He clenched his jaw, forming dark hollows beneath his high cheekbones. “But when I do, they’ll be punished.”

She wanted to ask him how. She wondered what kind of authority he had when it came to punishment. Julius Esposito’s howls of despair keened through her memory and she took a breath, wondering if Jean-Marc was capable of doing such a thing to another human being.

He glanced down at her; she kept her gaze averted. That was not a conversation she wanted to have right now.

“I’m going to continue your training,” he said. “You and your mother will stay here until I’m sure we’ve cleaned out the dangers inside your headquarters.”

“What about the dangers here?” Andre said, coming up behind them. “Did you hear about the vampire minions, the zombies and the demons that Le Fils sent after la jolie and your cousin?” He gestured to the trees, the swamp, the moon. “This is the bayou, Jean-Marc. A deadly place.” He crossed himself and kissed his thumb.

Jean-Marc raised a brow. “Bon soir, mon copain. Tell me, could you see this château from your front porch?”

“I’m glad to see you on your feet, mon vieux.” Andre shook his head. “All I saw were the trees. It wasn’t until I walked out of our compound that I saw it.”

“Because it’s warded,” Jean-Marc said. He waved a hand, revealing a dome of sparkling blue surrounding the house like a snow globe. “The terms of my regency prevented my warding your headquarters with Devereaux magic,” he explained to Izzy. “There’s no such edict here. And I have very strong magic at my disposal.”

“They wouldn’t let you use your magic to protect my mother?” she asked, taken aback.

He shook his head. “A foolish point of pride. You’ll be safe here, at least for now. And I’ll help you with your Gifts. You’ll learn to defend yourself. And hopefully you’ll be able to sort out the messages in your visions.”

In my visions, I’ve seen you dead and hanging from a tree, she wanted to tell him. Twice.

“I promised la jolie maîtresse a fais-dodo,” Andre said. “Maybe we could hold it tonight, inside her new place?” He looked at Izzy. “I’m talking about having a party, chére.” He playfully gestured to Jean-Marc’s ponytail. “Let down our hair. Celebrate life.”

Jean-Marc stroked his chin, bemused. He seemed so serious; Izzy had trouble imagining him at a party.

Alain looked at him, and Jean-Marc gazed back. Izzy had the sense that they were communicating with each other telepathically. Alain lowered his head and sighed.

“We have nothing more on Alain’s chauffeur than what that loa told you,” Jean-Marc told Izzy.

She opened her mouth to say she was sorry again, but it was just too banal. She nodded sadly, twisting her hands together.

“Merci, Blanche Neige,” Alain murmured. He waved a hand. “Eh, bien. Andre is right. Madame should have a chance to relax.”

“No, not when you’re in mourning,” she insisted. She said to Andre, “We’ll have the fais-dodo another time.”

“C’est bien.” Andre scratched his chest through his long johns, acquiescing. “Just say the word and we’ll cook up some gumbo and bring the fiddles over.”

Jean-Marc said, “I want to get you inside, Isabelle. You should rest. You’ve had an ordeal.” He looked at his cousin. “You, as well.”

The two nodded. Izzy was exhausted, and sore from their trek through the bayou. Back in New York, she ran to stay in shape, jogging at least three or four times a week. It had been nearly three weeks since she’d exercised, and she could tell—her quads and hamstrings were bunched and strained.

As if he had read her thoughts, Jean-Marc moved his fingers in a circle. Her aches and pains vanished. She licked her lips, feeling both grateful and intruded upon, and said nothing.

Andre said, “I’m going back to bed.”

Izzy turned to say goodbye, and both she and Andre spotted the second protective blue dome Jean-Marc had created, this one shielding the werewolves’ camp. He grinned broadly and said to Jean-Marc, “Merci bien, mon vieux.” Then he loped back through the wooden gateway.

Alain scrutinized his cousin. “Do you have the energy for that?” he queried gently.

Jean-Marc’s answer was a Frenchman’s no-big-deal shrug as he led Izzy and Alain into Izzy’s new house. It was decorated in white and blue—the colors of the Bouvards and the Devereauxes. The floor was a checkerboard of squares of pure white and blue-veined marble, dancing with colorful light from towering stained-glass windows repeating the image of a white dove flying above a trio of flames. She knew a dove figured prominently in the Devereaux coat of arms—a gauntlet extending from a castle tower, either releasing or capturing the bird of peace, and grace.

A waterfall splashed from the cathedral ceiling into a pool brimming with scarlet koi. In the center of the pool stood a white-marble statue of Jehanne in battle gear, her sword drawn and held in front of her face. Her features were Izzy’s features. Her mother’s features.

Izzy heard gentle harp music and smelled roses and oranges as Jean-Marc snapped his fingers and mist surrounded their feet. It buoyed them up to the second story, depositing them in front of a wide, ornately carved wooden door. The door was covered with wooden roses and flames twined together, overlaid with the initials B and D. Bouvard and Devereaux.

Two helmeted medieval knights in full suits of armor materialized and clanked to attention. They were identical to the ones that had guarded Marianne’s chamber in the other mansion.

“Je suis Isabelle Celestina DeMarco de Bouvard, Maison des Flammes,” Izzy told the knights.

The two knights presented arms—in their case, enormous battle swords—as the more modern guards outside the house had done.

The door disappeared, and a chamber stretched out before Izzy. It was very like the one in the other mansion. Two rows of veiled Femmes Blanches were seated on upholstered benches, holding hands. The double chain of women formed a corridor leading to a gilt bed on a dais at the other end of the chamber. It was Marianne’s sickbed, surrounded by alabaster pots of lilies. Behind the bed rose banks of medical equipment. Overlooking Marianne’s right shoulder, an exquisitely carved statue of Jehanne stood with her sword lowered to her side, her banner draped around her shoulders like a shawl. Her head was lowered slightly and ringed with the halo of a saint.

Light from the platinum chandelier overhead bathed the still form of the guardienne. And…she was glowing. Izzy had only seen her glow once, when she herself had placed her palms on her and willed her to wake up.

“Mon Dieu, what does this mean?” Alain asked under his breath.

“Back in the mansion, the magical conduit between Marianne and les Femmes Blanches was muted,” Jean-Marc explained, pantomiming with his fingers. “Like a flame turned down low. Here they can send her more energy.”

“How long has that been going on?” Alain asked. “Did they know they weren’t as effective as they could be?”

Jean-Marc shook his head. “It’s as much a surprise to them as it was to me. I’m wondering if there is something wrong with the other mansion. With the atmosphere.” He turned to Izzy. “Do you remember that I kept you out of your bedroom back in Brooklyn?”

“Yes. You said it was toxic,” she replied.

“Perhaps the Bouvard mansion is likewise toxic,” Jean-Marc continued. “It would help to explain why they’re weaker than us.”

“Or perhaps being inside a space warded with Devereaux magic has enhanced their powers. Given their healing Gift a boost,” Alain suggested.

“That is another possibility,” Jean-Marc concurred. “In either case, it’s good news.”

Izzy licked her lips, framing the question she wanted so badly to ask that she was afraid to do so. She was afraid of Jean-Marc’s answer. “Can they heal her now? Will she wake up?” Will I meet my mother, and will I be off the hook?

Her mind filled with the image of Pat. If she wasn’t needed here, she could return home. God, she wished for that.

So, apparently, did Le Fils.

“The Femmes Blanches don’t know how to interpret the glowing. Medically, her condition hasn’t changed,” Jean-Marc replied cautiously.

Yet, Izzy thought. She has to get better. The glowing must mean that her power has increased. It seemed so obvious to her.

She said to Jean-Marc, “Whatever happens, thank you. As usual, you’ve served the de Bouvards well.” She sounded so formal, so reserved. But it was hard for her to find her way with him now. He had acted in an official capacity when he had located her and brought her here. No doubt he was still acting in an official capacity.

And yet, when she locked gazes with him, she felt the low-level connection that was always present between them. It was an undercurrent of such intensity that for an instant, it crowded out her thoughts.

“De rien, Isabelle,” he said, as if with some difficulty.

Then she gestured for Alain and him to remain at the entrance to the chamber, while she walked down the center alone. As she passed the seated women, they rose, inclining their veiled heads.

Bienvenue, chére.

Vive, fille de Marianne.

We’re loyal to you, Isabelle.

We’ll help you.

She heard their loving thoughts and pressed her hands against her chest, deeply moved. She was grateful to them, and to Jean-Marc, for making all this happen.

Then she reached her mother’s bedside and moved to the right side of her bed, trying not to crowd the healing woman who sat silent and veiled in a white satin upholstered chair beside the bed. The woman was holding Marianne’s right hand. Behind the bed, medical monitoring equipment was stacked on a table, as it had been in the de Bouvard mansion. The readout windows were covered over with pieces of white paper, as if to shield onlookers from the tragic news: Marianne de Bouvard was still flatline.

Izzy murmured, “Pardon, merci,” to the veiled woman, who inclined her head.

Then Izzy placed her hand on Marianne’s cheek. The guardienne’s skin was dry and cool, her eyes closed, her mouth slack and partly open. Her riot of hair was spread across her satin pillows.

Izzy leaned forward and kissed her forehead. A gentle warmth blossomed against her lips. Then Izzy’s entire body began to tingle. She heard gasps around the room as she lifted her mouth and gazed down at her mother.

Her mother was still glowing with white light. And now Izzy was, too. She raised her arm to see a radiant layer of magical energy emanating from her skin. It was about an inch high, and she could see it pulsing and vibrating.

She examined her other arm, then her torso, raising the jeans skirt so she could see her legs. She was glowing all over—was it from her own Gift? Something Marianne had done? Or the Femmes Blanches, or Jean-Marc?

A louder gasp echoed around the room. Some of the women stood up. Izzy blinked back at them; then the veiled woman behind her tugged on her hand with her own free hand and said, “Attends, madame!”

Izzy’s attention shifted to the figure in the bed. Her heart leaped.

Marianne was smiling.

“By the patronesse!” another woman cried. It was Marianne’s doctor, Dr. de Bouvard, who rushed from a side door on the right wall of the chamber with Annette at her side. They approached the bed, and Izzy took a step away to give them room to examine her mother.

“Keep touching her,” the doctor exhorted Izzy as she un-clicked a penlight from the pocket of her white coat, opened Marianne’s right eye and shone the light inside it. “Yes, I have activity,” she reported to Annette. She did the same with the left eye. “Left pupil responding as well!”

The door opened again and a man in white scrubs poked his head around it. “We have an EEG reading!” he announced.

The Femmes Blanches began to stir and whisper among themselves. The woman holding Marianne’s right hand leaned her head forward and kissed the back of Izzy’s hand through her veils. She murmured, “Merci, Isabelle, Fille des Flammes.” Daughter of the Flames.

“She’s coming back,” Annette said to Izzy. She threw her arms around her. “You did it!”

The room erupted into cheers and joyful weeping as the women, still holding hands, began to chant.

“Isabelle! Marianne! Les Femmes des Flammes!”

They were cheering for the Women of the Flames—Izzy DeMarco, formerly from Brooklyn, and her mother, Marianne, an enigma who had been unconscious for over a quarter of a century.

 

Against Jean-Marc’s wishes—he wanted her in her own bedroom, safe and sequestered—Izzy put on her white satin gown, which he had brought from the de Bouvard mansion; brushed her teeth and said a quick prayer to the Virgin Mary; and then another, fleetingly and fervently, in thanks to St. Joan of Arc; crawled into bed with her mother and settled in with her arms curled around Marianne. The veiled women kept vigil throughout the day, occasionally giving up their seats for a replacement. Izzy heard their quiet movements, and their occasional good wishes, aimed her way:

Merci, chére. Take care of her.

Make her well again, jolie Isabelle.

Marianne, je vous en prie. Wake up. We have waited so long for you.

Then she drifted and dreamed, and she saw Marianne towering above her. She was a little girl, a toddler, really, and her mother was smiling down on her. Isabelle was holding out a pure white lily, and her mother was singing an old French lullaby:

Sûr le pont d’Avignon, on y dansait, on y dansait…

Her voice was beautiful. It was the voice of a saint, of an angel.

Izzy saw her own chubby arms reaching toward Marianne, heard her own voice say in French, “Maman, je t’aime! Tu est belle!”

Then the image faded, to be replaced by a glowing white figure at the end of a long, scintillating tunnel, robed and veiled like the Femmes Blanches. Clear, bell-like soprano voices filled the air as it removed the veil from its face and held out its arms. It was glowing so brightly that Izzy had to shield her eyes—and she saw that she was an adult again.

“We did not have a life together,” the figure said. “But I always loved you. I dreamed of you. Hold me now, my daughter.”

“We can still have a life together,” Izzy replied in a whisper, curling around her mother in the gilt bed.

And then she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I n the morning, she woke to Jean-Marc and the doctor standing over her. Jean-Marc was wearing a black sweater and jeans, his hair loose. An earring in his left ear—a tiny gold dove—glittered as he moved his head. His eyes were hooded, his expression grim.

Did something happen to Marianne in the night?

Izzy saw that she herself was still glowing. Anxiously she gazed at her mother’s face. She was still smiling gently, and she was still glowing as well. The veiled women in the room appeared calm. The vibration in the room was still buoyant with hope.

Jean-Marc spoke first. “Bonjour,” he said. Annette came up beside him, holding a large tray full of covered dishes. “We’ll eat. Then we’ll train.”

“Train?” She stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying with my mother.” She held Marianne tightly.

Jean-Marc gave the doctor a pointed look. Flushing, the woman cleared her throat and said, “The regent and I have discussed the situation. We’ve agreed that we’ll conduct an experiment. You’ll…train, and while you’re separated from your mother, we’ll see if her condition reverts.”

“Reverts?” Izzy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “And what will that prove? That I shouldn’t have left her side?”

“Isabelle,” Jean-Marc said harshly, and she knew then that something was up. She looked at him, hard. He returned her gaze and said nothing more. He was holding out on her, forcing her to get out of the bed before he would talk to her.

“Damn it,” she said.

And then she heard the voice: C’est bien. Go with him.

He moved to help her; she shrugged him off, kissing Marianne’s lips. She held her breath, waiting for a response and getting none. Disappointed and a bit anxious, she rose, stood, and smoothed out her hair.

“Clean up and dress,” he said. “In these.” He handed her some workout clothes. “And these,” he added, bending down and retrieving a pair of black boots and socks.

“I have boots at the cabin,” she informed him.

He gave her a look. “They’re filthy and stiff with swamp water. You’re an heiress, Isabelle. You can afford them.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll shower in my suite.”

“Please wait for the food,” he said to Annette. “We need some time.” He looked back at Izzy. “Shower long and well. Get the residue off your body.”

Aye-aye, sir, she thought. His lip curled and she realized that he’d heard her.

Saying nothing more—aloud or in her mind—she went through the wooden door just off her mother’s chamber, where Jean-Marc had created a bedroom suite for her. It was done in white and blue, like the rest of the mansion—in velvets and silks, her walnut four-poster sinking into the luxurious, thick pile of the rich white wool carpet. He had also installed a landline so she could call New York—her father and Pat—and Pennsylvania—her brother, Gino. He had explained that when she dialed, the number that would show on the receiver’s caller ID would be the fake number in Florida. When a caller dialed the same number, it would be forwarded to her landline. If she didn’t pick up, the “hotel’s” message system recorded the calls. It wasn’t very magical—it was simple Ungifted technology—but it certainly was effective.

Izzy quickly showered in her immense white-marble bathroom and examined the pile of clothes Jean-Marc had thrust at her. There was a pair of black sweats, a silky black thong, a black sports bra and a black T-shirt. She paused at the thong. Her only alternate pair of underwear was back in Andre’s cabin, also filthy and stinky with swamp water. She might as well go with the thong.

She put it on, feeling uncommonly wanton. She took a peek at herself in the freestanding full-view mirror beside the bed. She was topless, and she rather liked the look of the tiny strip of shiny black slung low on her hips.

Then she remembered that back in New York, Jean-Marc had maintained surveillance of her bedroom—for security reasons—by means of a crystal called a scrying stone. It was the magical equivalent of a button cam—a miniaturized video sending unit. As Jean-Marc himself had said, the lines between technology and magic were blurring every day.

Whatever the case, she didn’t want him to see her prancing around like this, so she covered her breasts and quickly dressed.

Next she tried to do something with her hair. She didn’t have any hair elastics or barrettes, so she had to settle for letting it run riot, tumbling over her shoulders. She rarely wore makeup, so she didn’t mourn the loss. But she did think that if they were going to be staying out here for any appreciable amount of time, she’d need to make a list of things she needed.

She went back through the wooden door of her suite into her mother’s chamber. Jean-Marc was standing over her mother’s bed. She crossed over to him, and they looked down on Marianne together. She was still glowing, her lips still curved in a smile.

He turned and saw her, and his eyes widened slightly in masculine appreciation. Discomforting as it was coming from Jean-Marc, she enjoyed it. Before Pat, she’d usually been one of the guys down at the station house—she played pool and drank beer with the alpha-male cops, who then sought her advice about their relationships with softer, more datable women.

Pat had changed all that, made her feel beautiful and sensual. It was still new to her.

The veiled heads of the Femmes Blanches shifted slightly as she and Jean-Marc walked past them. She could feel their alertness, their uncertainty about what was happening in the strange new mansion. Their readiness to help her, if she needed it

Jean-Marc propelled her through the ornate wooden door, to the landing flanked by the two knights. Lavender mist swirled around their feet, lowering them to the ground floor.

Jean-Marc walked her past the waterfall and outside, down the brick path to a small clearing between the mansion and the werewolves’ camp. It was a grassy, flat square about thirty feet a side, devoid of cypresses and live oaks and their capes of Spanish moss. She was certain it hadn’t been there yesterday.

Several white leather bags were grouped around a bulbous plastic form, a head-size sphere perched atop an elongated oval, set into a generous, round base. It was vaguely human-shaped, and there were Xs painted on it in strategic areas—the face, the heart, the midsection, the groin. A submachine gun leaned against it like a man taking a cigarette break.

Training, she thought, not sure how she felt. He had told her he would train her in New Orleans, and she had nearly died in New York for lack of it. But with her mother’s condition improved—or at least, changed—she wondered if it should take top priority.

Jean-Marc walked to one of the white bags, unzipped it and pulled out her Medusa. Dangling it by his thumb, he said, “You left this unprotected when you took your bath. You lost track of it. That was very sloppy.”

As she reddened, she heard the dream voice:

Secure your gun. Or he will take it. And he will end your House.

The voice didn’t mean Jean-Marc, did it? She got quiet, and listened to her intuition. There was nothing more. Ever since she had met Jean-Marc, she had wavered between trusting him and fearing that everything he told her was a lie to entrap her. She was certain of so little. Except for the connection between them. That was real.

Hey, just because he turns me on, doesn’t mean he’s not evil, she thought. She gazed at the mansion with a different perspective. Was it a sanctuary, or had she just waltzed right into a prison?

“I am waiting,” he told her, his dark eyes penetrating the silence.

She walked up to him and grabbed the gun. With a practiced air, she whipped it open. The cartridges had been removed. He had rendered it safe.

“There was something wrong with it,” she said, clicking it shut. “I think Louise jimmied it so it wouldn’t work.”

“I have search parties combing the bayou for her remains,” he said. “We may still be able to read something off them.”

“Don’t they degrade rapidly?” she asked.

He cocked his head. “Who told you that?”

“I think it was Louise.” She thought a moment. “It might have been Michel. That was why we had to hurry once they retrieved Esposito’s…residue.” She frowned. “Why? Isn’t that true? Didn’t we have to hurry?”

“Peut-être,” he replied. “Maybe.”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” she challenged him.

“Why would I do that?” Raising a brow, Jean-Marc took the Medusa back from her, completely surprising her. He walked backward, moving his lips as he began to speak in what sounded like Latin. Then he turned sideways and raised his arm, sighting down the barrel at a spot parallel to where Izzy stood. Izzy felt herself turning to ice. All he had to do was whip that gun to the left and—

It’s not loaded, she reminded herself.

He kept chanting in Latin as he walked over to the equipment bags and leaned over, giving her a view of his rock-hard ass in his tight jeans. With his left hand, he unzipped the closest bag and sorted through it. He brought out a green cardboard box and pulled open the top with his finger. Ammo. She couldn’t tell what caliber it was from where she stood. He plucked out a cartridge and opened the cylinder. He loaded the single cartridge into the Medusa and snapped it shut.

His voice rose. Sparkling swirls formed in the rosy morning air, spinning near the ground and kicking up leaves and twigs. The wind moved faster, blurring into long bands, flattening and expanding. It was taking on a shape. A human shape. The silhouette of a man.

There was a sharp crack, and the air around the silhouette appeared to solidify and drop to the ground in chunks. She thought of how Michel and D’Artagnon had cut the evil in the chamber into briquettes where they had read Esposito’s remains. Then the shape took on form and finer definition.

Izzy recoiled. Her heart beat out of rhythm and she felt a sheen of perspiration bead on her forehead and her upper lip. Her hands shook. The dark coat, the scar across its face—it was the assassin that had come after her in New York.

Jean-Marc said to Izzy, “Don’t forget. It’s a fabricant.”

Not a man, she filled in. She remembered how overwhelmed she had been when she thought she had killed a human being in New York. But it had been a magically created being, just like this one.

“Venez ici,” Jean-Marc said. When she didn’t move, he said, “Please, come here.”

She didn’t want to come anywhere near that thing. Which was his point, she supposed. He was going to resume her “training.”

He said, “If you come to me, I will order it to approach us together. Otherwise…” He trailed off meaningfully.

“I liked you better when you were unconscious,” she muttered.

She walked slowly toward him, one eye on the fabricant and one on the Medusa in his fist. Her stomach was churning, her senses on alert.

“Magnifique,” he said to her. “Look at yourself.”

She glanced down to discover that the thin layer of white light surrounding her body had thickened. Without losing her focus, she waved her hand in front of her eyes, curious why she didn’t view her surroundings through a gauzy glow of white.

“We have many bodies,” Jean-Marc said to her. “When you feel threatened, your physical body manufactures more adrenaline, oui? Your senses become more acute. You prepare to flee or fight.

“It’s the same with our magical bodies. As you feel the need for more power, it increases.” His eyes swept down her body, then back up. She felt naked. She felt as if he could see the thong through her sweats. “This is very good.”

“So…you’re going to scare me and that will make my power grow,” she said.

“Muscles are muscles,” he said. “Pain is the cornerstone of growth.”

She huffed and walked over to him, boldly sweeping her eyes up and down his body. “Then why aren’t you glowing?”

“I am. You just don’t see it.” He clicked his fingers. Immediately, his body was bathed in thick layers of indigo.

“Very impressive,” she said, meaning it.

“Years of training,” he replied. Then the glow vanished.

“Okay, you win. I get it. Bring it on. Stress me out.”

He handed her the Medusa. She aimed it at the fabricant, who did not seem to be aware of her or Jean-Marc. Maybe he hadn’t activated it yet, done whatever it was that he had to do to make it attack her.

“You know that the .9 mm’s stop the heart of your target,” he said, as he leaned his head toward her, refining her aim with his hand over hers. “Unless there’s a demonic component. Then they’re likely to explode. Like Esposito.”

Izzy licked her lips, struggling not to tremble beneath his touch. “Right.”

“The .380 auto rounds erase memories. Sometimes permanently, sometimes not. It depends on your target. If it’s a Gifted, it’s usually temporary. The .38 Colts diffuse magical energy. So, say you’ve got someone flinging fireballs at you. If you hit them with one of these, you could decrease their range.”

“Or the speed and temperature of the fireball,” she ventured, her gaze on the fabricant.

“Oui. Vraiment. Excellent, Isabelle.” He sounded pleased.

“Why not just stop their hearts? In all cases?” Izzy asked. But she knew the answer. It was the same as in police work. The key words were stop and apprehend, not kill.

“The Bouvards are on record as protectors,” Jean-Marc said. “They are supposed to serve a function very much like the Ungifted law enforcement agencies. There are supernaturals who prey on the Ungifted—and sometimes even the Gifted—but others who just want to live in peace.”

“But we don’t police Gifted from other Houses?” Izzy asked.

“There aren’t supposed to be any Gifted from other Houses in your territory,” Jean-Marc replied. “The Grand Covenate exists because we divided up the geographical world into territories. We enter the territory of another House by invitation only.”

And the Devereaux cousins were not invited, Izzy thought. The Covenate sent them here.

“So we…keep the peace between the supernaturals and the Ungifted for the Ungifted government,” Izzy said, moving on.

“That is your manifesto.” She heard the dryness in his voice.

“But we’re not doing it.”

“No. You’re not. Mayor Gelineau has good cause to be irritated with your House. Your presence is disruptive and your leadership is not very helpful.”

“I see,” she said, not really seeing.

“The .357 Magnums are for demons,” he continued, sighting down the gun again. “But if you use one on a nondemon, it’s got the power of a standard-issue .357.”

Before he could say anything else, she squeezed the trigger. The .9 mm screamed toward the fabricant and slammed into its heart. Or rather, the place where it would have a heart. She had no idea if it did or not. It collapsed to the ground, its eyes open and vacant, to all external appearances, a dead man.

“Hey, it works,” Izzy said. “You must have fixed it.”

“I didn’t tell you to fire,” he said, frowning.

“No, you didn’t.” She lowered the Medusa to her side.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “It took a lot of effort to create that.”

“Muscles are muscles,” she replied flippantly, although she was sorry—Not that she had shot the fabricant, but that he had gone to all that effort for essentially nothing. The truth was, she couldn’t bear the idea of that thing coming at her again. It would be like standing in front of a wall of fire and allowing it to sweep over her.

She turned to apologize and found him gesturing to Annette, who was standing on the first floor verandah with the breakfast tray in her arms. When Izzy turned back, she discovered a white wrought-iron table and three chairs behind her. It hadn’t been there two seconds before.

Alain came out of the mansion’s front door, saw Annette and took the tray from her. He paused politely, while she walked down the path in front of him.

Jean-Marc pulled a chair out for Izzy. As she sat down, he gritted, “Tu as raison. We shouldn’t start training until we’ve eaten. I…pushed. As I do. On occasion.”

On occasion? she thought. How about all the time?

“Thank you.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry I shot your assassin before he could try to assassinate me.”

Jean-Marc smiled a lazy grin as he pulled out his own chair. “Shooting first is a valid method of self-defense.” His grin grew as he added, “Thank God I only put one cartridge in the gun.”

She smiled back at him. “Yes, thank God.” She wondered if he believed in God. The patron of his house was the Gray King. Did that leave room for God?

She asked, “What did Louise do to it?”

He shrugged. “A malfunctioning spell. It broke when she died.”

So a spell stops working when the person who cast it dies? Izzy thought. She tucked that bit of information away.

Empty-handed, Annette approached the table. She said to Izzy, “The doctor wanted me to tell you that your mother is still the same. She’s very pleased.”

“Thank you,” Izzy said, genuinely grateful. She took a breath as she frowned apologetically at Annette. “I’m sorry I had to trick you like that. With the glamour. I’m sorry that I left you at the mansion without telling you. I didn’t know what else to do. I—” She glanced at Jean-Marc.

The man took that as his cue to move away, signaling for Alain to keep his distance as well. The two men walked apart, giving Izzy and Annette some space.

“Guardienne,” Annette said, her voice husky and choked with emotion. “It is we who should apologize to you. I know you don’t want this. So many other Bouvards have just…left.”

Annette lowered her voice, as if she wanted to make sure that Jean-Marc couldn’t hear her. “And I wonder myself, why do we continue? What is our purpose? Maybe it’s time for our House to fall.”

Izzy put her hand on Annette’s shoulder, and saw that she was no longer glowing. Beneath the weight of Izzy’s fingertips, the other woman trembled.

Izzy said, “My understanding is that we were meant to be protectors. It seems that because of our…situation, we’ve fallen down on the job. Back in my other life, my dream was to become a cop. A protector. I’ll do what I can to keep you safe. And once we’re back on our feet, we’ll keep other people safe, too.”

Why the hell did I just say that? she thought as Annette bobbed her head in agreement. It implied promises she wasn’t ready to make.

Annette bobbed a curtsey. “Merci bien,” she said. A shadow crossed her face. “Madame,” she continued, then fell silent as Jean-Marc and Alain returned. Izzy wondered what she had wanted to say, and she was a little frustrated with Jean-Marc for interrupting.

Annette averted her gaze from the two men and said to Izzy, “I’ll be inside.”

She left. Alain set the tray on the table and snapped his fingers. The silver covers on the dishes disappeared; there were croissants, and strawberries in white cream; soft-boiled eggs in little silver egg cups and large white cups decorated with flames, containing strong, fragrant coffee.

Alain served the three of them, pouring heaps of sugar and cream into all three cups without asking Izzy how she took her coffee. She usually drank it black, like her father. Like most cops. But as she raised the cup to her lips and took a sip, she found it uncommonly rich and delicious. Pleasurable.

Jean-Marc and Alain lowered their heads for a moment. Izzy wondered if they were praying, and if so, to whom.

Then Jean-Marc picked up his coffee and said, “Did you hear the voodoo drums last night?”

She shook her head.

“Really?” Alain asked, blinking at her. “I barely slept at all.”

“They were talking all through the bayou,” Jean-Marc went on. “About Le Fils. He is coming after you, Isabelle. Again.”

A fistful of fear grabbed her lower back and shook it, hard. “I beat him last time,” she said, but her voice cracked.

“You shot Julius Esposito. You didn’t touch Le Fils. He simply left.”

“Retreated,” she argued, but even she could see that that was too fine a point to put on it.

“I told him what Mamaloi’s loa revealed,” Alain told her. He held his hand in the air and a large, white cloth napkin appeared. He laid it across his lap. Then he gestured toward Izzy’s lap, and a napkin appeared there, too. “About the little fish and the gator.”

“I’m guessing that’s why you marched me out here to train first thing,” Izzy said to Jean-Marc. “No gator bait for breakfast. Or vice versa.”

She was trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.

Jean-Marc nodded somberly.

“I am trying to save your life,” he said.

 

After Jean-Marc’s comment, Izzy could take no pleasure in their breakfast. She ate quietly while Jean-Marc and Alain talked in English, French and occasionally telepathically. When it came time to clear the dishes, Jean-Marc gathered them together himself and carried them into the house. She’d half expected one of the Devereaux cousins to snap his fingers to make them conveniently disappear.

Under a cloud, Izzy watched him go. During their training session, he hadn’t praised her one time, nor given her any feedback except impatient criticism and thinly veiled despair that she had so far to go. Maybe it was childish to need some strokes, but she needed them. And she wasn’t going to get them, at least not from Jean-Marc de Devereaux. Not during their workouts, and not during the conversations that followed them, apparently.

Alain turned to Izzy and said, “He is trying, Blanche Neige. This has been a terrible strain on him.” He took a breath as if he were considering his next words very carefully. “He…has come to care for you very much. It is making him crazy that you’re so vulnerable. Everything in him wants to take you to Montreal, where we live.” He smiled sadly. “Where we used to live.”

“You’ve been here for three years,” she said, her attention back at his caring for her very much. How much? Did he know how attracted to him she was?

Did he know that she cared very deeply about Pat? That she thought she might be in love with the detective back in New York?

“Three long years,” he concurred. “And may I say that aside from you, I don’t care if I ever meet another Bouvard again. Please don’t be offended.”

“I’m not,” she assured him. “I don’t feel very much like a Bouvard.”

“Yet,” Alain replied.

She was about to ask him what he meant by that when Jean-Marc came back to the table. He wiped his face like someone who was unutterably weary.

Dropping his hands to his sides, he said, “Bon. Let’s resume.”

 

Preparing for battle was an ugly business. Izzy’s stomach lurched as she mimicked pulling the pin on a grenade for Jean-Marc’s inspection. Alain was assisting, mostly by arranging the vast store of supplies Jean-Marc had assembled for Izzy’s training. Since Le Fils was a vampire, Jean-Marc’s emphasis was on antivampire material. The grenade contained a payload of holy water, although it would still have to be detonated like a standard grenade. He showed her Baggies full of peeled garlic, and handfuls of green-tinted plastic crosses attached to summer-camp-style lanyards.

“Scatter the crucifixes along your escape route,” he said. “They’re glow-in-the-dark, so you’ll be able to trace your path. Vampires won’t be able to step on or over them, and it’ll slow them down.” He dangled one at her. “The plastic strings don’t tangle.”

Wooden stakes were not part of the gear. Vampires had to be beheaded or set on fire to die the True Death.

“You can also make their heads explode like melons,” Izzy added helpfully as Jean-Marc clicked the barrel of her Medusa back into place.

“I’ve reloaded your gun with the right ammo to do just that,” he informed her, as he handed her the Medusa. He watched her slide it into the gun belt he had brought for her. “And I need to remind you that not all those who come against you will be vampires or fabricants.”

Her chest tightened. “I’ve already killed more people than my father in his entire career as a police officer.” In case he didn’t understand, she said, “One. Esposito.”

“It depends on your definition of people,” Alain said, juggling a couple of grenades in his hands. “A man who trades his soul for power, is he a man?”

“A twelve-year-old boy who sells heroin for food money, is he a drug dealer?” Izzy replied.

“Let’s go through the Uzi.” Jean-Marc held up a submachine gun and looped the sling around her neck. Her skin crawled. She had processed dozens, if not hundreds, of submachine guns in the prop cage, but this was the first time she had ever gotten close to firing one.

If Jean-Marc noticed her gun phobia, he didn’t comment on it.

“The most important thing is that it’s not like TV. Don’t shoot in long, continuous bursts or the kick will have you pointing at the moon. Three bursts and a rest. Bam-bam-bam, pause.”

“Got it.”

“If you shoot a vampire, it will slow it down so one of us can decapitate it or set it on fire.”

She nodded. “Got it.

“Bon.” He stood back. “I’ll create some fabricants for you to shoot. Once you’re proficient, we’ll move on to flamethrowers.”

“What about rocket launchers?” She was still trying to find that moment of levity.

“After the flamethrowers,” he replied, without a trace of irony. “Before we go hand-to-hand. Martial arts, brass knuckles, garrottes, that sort of thing.”

That sort of thing.

No levity today.

D uring the next week, in addition to working with Izzy, Jean-Marc resumed his full roster of duties as regent for the House of the Flames. He met with Michel de Bouvard, Sange, Mayor Gelineau, Governor Jackson and the superintendent of the New Orleans Police, Broussard. Izzy didn’t know exactly what he said to them about the situation, and he kept the information from her. She knew they had wanted to meet her, but Jean-Marc kept her under wraps. He told her to concentrate on her training, and that when it was time to bring her back into the loop of Bouvard leadership, he would do so.

Every day she went across the clearing to visit the werewolves. The women gave her clothes—jeans, T-shirts, slinky tank tops and gypsy skirts. She invited them to her mansion as well. The scents of chicory and wine mingled with the oranges and roses Izzy had come to associate with safety and tranquility, making a new fragrance to soothe her jangled nerves.

They had their fais do-do, playing crazy zydeco that echoed down the halls and through the rooms. The werewolves threw back their heads and howled as they played fiddles and accordions and danced with wild abandon. The off-duty Femmes Blanches joined in. So, too, Alain.

Jean-Marc attended, but he didn’t dance and he didn’t clap along with the music. His smiles, when they came, bordered on polite distance. Izzy didn’t want to be part of a situation that engendered more brooding looks on his face and the way he got up out of his chair and walked to the windows, pacing and staring out at the night.

Looking for trouble.

She didn’t want there to be any trouble, anywhere, for him to find.

The air of tension around him was palpable. Izzy found herself visiting the werewolves more and more often. They were very different from Jean-Marc—alert but not wary. Careful but not paranoid.

“He’s wound too tight, him,” Andre said one day, as he and Izzy leaned against the gate separating the two encampments and watched Jean-Marc and Alain performing tai chi exercises together. Dressed in black sweats and white ’beaters, the two moved in perfect unison, and their slow ballet of forms stirred her deeply. Lust tickled her lower abdomen, and her eyes roamed his body.

Almost as her own form of discipline, she forced her thoughts immediately to Pat. She had spoken to him that morning, weaving all kinds of lies about her nonexistent vacation in Florida.

The little boy whose parents had most likely been shot by hunters somberly walked up to Izzy and held out a velvety black kitten.

He murmured, “He is Bijou.” They were the first words he had spoken to Izzy, ever. She was moved. “For you, lady.”

“Oh, I can’t take your kitty,” Izzy said gently to the small face and enormous eyes that were tilted up to gaze at her. “That’s so sweet, though.”

“We have a lot more,” Andre drawled, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The maman of Bijou is a little tart.” He showed his teeth. “A real animal.”

The cat batted at Izzy’s chin and mewed at her. His eyes were enormous.

“Cats are traditional pets among the Gifted,” Andre said. “You know the stories about witches and their familiars.” He pointed at Bijou. “Take him over there. It’ll make that grumpy Jean-Marc smile.”

Izzy gave the kitten a dubious frown. The kitten mewed again in response. The little boy persisted, holding him out at arm’s length, and the kitten’s hind legs pawed at the air. Izzy gathered up the little ball of fur in both her hands and tucked his head under her chin. Bijou licked her with his warm, sandpapery tongue, and she smiled, rubbing her nose against the round, furry head.

But Bijou would be another tendril tying her to this world, she realized. Determined to say no, she gave the kitten a little kiss and prepared to give him back. But the little boy turned on his heel and darted away.

“No,” she said, with no small amount of desperation.

Andre chuckled. “Take him over there. You can always bring him back.”

The cat nuzzled her cheek. She sighed, surrendering. She settled the kitten in crook of her arm, and he began to purr.

“See? He’s in love,” Andre assured her.

 

During the next week, Izzy and Bijou slept nearly every night with her mother; but some nights Izzy was restless. Afraid she would disturb Marianne, she would carry the kitten into her own room and toss and turn in her own bed. Sometimes she would stand on the balcony that looked out over the enchanted grounds, watching the moon play on the cypresses and glimmer on the bayou. She didn’t see the blue light of the protective dome, but Jean-Marc assured her it was there. She was safe. Or so he said.

One night, when she was especially restless, she left Bijou in her room and went on a run through the hedge maze Jean-Marc had also created on the grounds. He didn’t like her to go outside at night, but she placated him by taking two bodyguards with her, as well as her Medusa. Dressed in black sweats and a T-shirt, she jogged through the twists and turns of the ivy-covered privet hedges until she reached the fountain in the center, which contained a statue of Jehanne surrounded by roses and lilies. There were statues of her everywhere. She appreciated Jean-Marc’s reverence for the patronesse.

She had seen his bedroom only once, during her initial tour of the house, and she knew there was an altar in an alcove to the Gray King. In Alain’s room, too, she surmised, although she hadn’t inspected his private quarters. Jean-Marc’s bedroom was heavy, dark and masculine—ebony furniture and indigo upholstery. She found his personal decorating style as oppressive as her stone bedroom back in the de Bouvard headquarters, and wondered if he had had help decorating the rest of the mansion—it was much airier and filled with light.

After the run, she showered in her private bathroom, luxuriating in the rose-scented soap and lotion that had been provided for her, when the phone rang. Wrapping herself in her oversize bath towel, she stretched across her bed to reach it. Bijou, curled in a fist-size ball on one of her satin pillows, slept through the maneuver.

“Hey, you,” Pat said. “Is this too late for you?”

“No,” she replied, flopping over on her back, drinking in the sound of his voice. She closed her eyes and could almost feel him in the room with her.

“How’s Florida? All sun and fun?”

She flushed, hating to keep up the lie. “Yes. I really needed the break. I’m glad I took it. But I…miss you.”

“But you’re…okay.” He sounded tentative.

“Yeah, fine. I’ll be home soon.” She winced. She didn’t want to make more promises she couldn’t keep.

“That’s good. That’s great.”

“Yeah. How’s my father?”

He chuckled. “Well, I hope this doesn’t put you in therapy, but I think your dad’s going out on a date with Captain Clancy tonight.”

Or maybe she’s just keeping an eye on him, Izzy thought. Maybe Jean-Marc told her something new is going on down here.

“Okay, isn’t that fraternizing?” she said, trying to sound amused.

“Maybe not so much,” he said. “With all the shit that’s coming to light, Clancy’s job is on the line.”

“It’s not her fault,” Izzy said.

“Bunch of us went up the chain of command to point that out. But HQ is saying she’s the boss, and cops are stealing dope on her watch.”

“That is so sad,” she murmured. God knows what’s been going on on my watch.

“Esposito’s still at large,” he added.

No, he’s not. I shot him, she wanted to say. “He must have fled the scene by now.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Why stick around? Clancy asked after you, asked how you were,” he went on. “Which makes me realize she knows we’ve got something going on.”

“Do you mind? There’s no rule against it. You’re not my boss.”

“I’m kinda proud, actually.”

She smiled wistfully, missing him. “How about you? Are you working this evening?”

“Nope. I’m in for the night. I have a good book and a great beer. And if all else fails, ESPN.”

“So you can stay on for a while.” She wanted to have a good, long conversation.

“I can stay on for hours,” he drawled. “How about you? Can you stay on, darlin’?”

Was he asking her to have phone sex? She was intrigued. She’d never done it before.

“Yeah, I can. For hours. And I’m in bed,” she told him experimentally.

“Oh?” His voice dropped an octave, low and sexy, deep in his throat.

“I’m in bed, and I’ve had a couple of dreams about you.” She rolled over on her back and flopped open her towel. Her nipples were hard. Her legs splayed open on the soft, satiny bedspread.

“Dreams? You don’t know the half of it, Iz.” He sounded lusty. “The dreams I’ve been having about you…I can feel you. And you feel…oh, Iz…”

She let her hand trail down between her legs.

“What are you wearing?” she asked him.

“Bathrobe,” he replied.

“And…nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

She licked her lips. “Well, then.”

Scrying stone, she thought. She muttered, “Damn it.”

“Iz?”

Then suddenly Bijou jerked up on her pillow and let out a shriek. His fur stiffened and his tail went rigid; a second later, her bedroom blared with the sound of thundering drums and the shrill howls of wolves. Their keening rose and fell like sirens; the drums pounded in wild rhythms.

The noise was so loud she couldn’t hear herself as she hastily said, “Pat, sorry, something’s going on.”

She cupped her hand around the phone and could make out Pat’s voice as he said, “Are those sirens?”

“I’d better see what’s up,” she told him. “I’ll call you back.”

She hung up and wrapped the towel around herself. Bijou batted at her ankles and she picked him up. She opened the door to the balcony and stepped out onto the rectangle of waist-high wrought iron. The howls were deafening. The cypresses and live oaks were practically shaking with them.

Then she realized that the trees really were shaking. As she watched, plucking Bijou’s tiny claws from her chest as he grabbed on in fright, half a dozen silvery wolves dashed among them, their heads thrown back as they howled. It was the werewolf pack. Were they chasing something down? A vampire? A demon?

She put her free hand on the balcony and leaned forward, scrutinizing the scene. For a moment they were hidden from her view as they shot into a copse of live oaks. Then a hulking wolflike creature emerged. It was the pack alpha—Andre or Lucky.

Then she saw Jean-Marc.

Dressed in a black skintight catsuit that clung to his pecs, biceps and quads, he jogged behind the alpha with an Uzi slung around his neck. She thought he might be wearing body armor. His hair was tied back, and although she couldn’t read his expression from where she stood, she could read his body language. Like the wolves, he was on the hunt.

Still carrying Bijou, Izzy ran to the bathroom and grabbed her white floor-length bathrobe. Barefoot, she raced into her mother’s chamber and ran to Marianne’s bed. Her doctor was there, examining her. Wolf howls and drumbeats echoed through the room. The Femmes Blanches sat in their accustomed seats, hands tightly held.

Then Alain dashed into the room, in a midnight-blue robe covered with silver doves. His hair was tousled and his eyes were puffy; he had just awakened.

He rushed up to Izzy and said, “Good. You’re all right.” He looked at the doctor.

“Marianne is fine,” she reported.

“What’s happening?” Izzy demanded, absently stroking Bijou.

“Attack,” Alain said. “Jean-Marc and the Cajuns are on it.” He sounded as if he were trying to reassure himself as well as her. “We’ll stay here.”

They stood beside the bed, listening to the wolves and the drums. It seemed to go on for hours. Izzy remained beside her mother, but she felt a nearly undeniable urge to race out of the mansion and join the fray. Her muscles contracted; her blood roared. She felt like a warrior.

She had a sudden, clear vision:

 

France, the Village of Arc

 

Young Jehanne knelt beside the Stone of Sainte-Marie, said to be where the Virgin once appeared to some shepherds. Her head was bowed and she was praying her rosary over and over, telling the simple wooden beads with her eyes tightly shut.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she said aloud, and desperately. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She was terrified.

“Jehanne, allez, vite, ” a voice whispered inside her head. “Rise up, Warrior of the True King. You must go and fight for France. You must deliver her from the enemy. ”

“Hail, Mary,” Jehanne murmured, giving her head a shake, as if she could force the voice from her mind.

“This is not the time for prayer. This is the time for action,” said the voice. “Go. Fight. It is your destiny. ”

 

“Blanche Neige?” Alain queried.

She blinked. He was staring at her. The doctor was staring at her. The heads of the veiled women had shifted in her direction.

“I’m all right,” she said. Her free hand was empty. She had forgotten her Medusa again.

As if he had sussed out her thoughts, Alain said, “You need to stay here.”

She nodded, but if anything, the urge was getting stronger. She began to sweat. She looked down at herself and saw that she was blazing with white energy.

Alain saw it, too. He made motions in the air and murmured some words. The white light dimmed, and with it, some of her adrenaline rush. She understood that he’d put a spell on her, and she both resented it and was grateful.

“I had a vision,” she finally told him. “When Jehanne was first called to fight for France.”

“Jean-Marc warned you the magical field here is very powerful,” he said. The drums pounded faster. The howls spiked shriller. “Remember that Jean-Marc is a very powerful magic user, and he is out in the bayou, which amplifes magic as well.” He touched her arm. Bijou growled and batted at him. “He’ll be all right.”

Shortly thereafter, the drums stopped. And then the howling. There was utter stillness.

The veiled women held their collective breath. So did Izzy.

Alain said, “You see? It’s over.” But he looked worried, as if he had no idea about the battle or the outcome.

I saw Jean-Marc dead and gutted, she thought sickly. I shouldn’t have let him talk me into staying here. I should have gone into the bayou to help him.

The door to the chamber burst open. Jean-Marc appeared on the threshold, one muscular arm gripping the jamb as he heaved and panted. There was blood on his face and a diagonal gash crossing his heart. Blood dripped from the wound to the marble floor.

Alain swore in French as Izzy raced toward him. Jean-Marc waved her off, but she slid her arm around his waist, steadying him. His bulk surprised her—he was wiry and long-limbed, like a dancer, but his body mass was all muscle, and he was deceptively heavy. She said, “My God, what happened?”

“It’s all right,” he said. “We took care of it.”

“Of what?” she asked, looking from him to Alain as Alain and the doctor joined them.

The doctor sounded worried as she examined his wound and said, “Monsieur, this was too soon after your surgery. You’ve ripped open your sutures.”

“Hélas,” Jean-Marc replied, very devil-may-care. He turned to Izzy. “I’m fine. Le Fils initiated another attack. We stopped him, pushed him back. Your headquarters is fine. Everything is taken care of. Go to your room.”

“What the hell?” she said angrily. “If you think—”

“Blanche Neige, please,” Alain cut in softly. “Please, go.”

Izzy shook her head. “There’s no way I’m leaving until I’ve been debriefed and I know Jean-Marc’s okay.”

“If I promise to debrief you, will you give me some peace?” Jean-Marc flung at her. He was shaking with anger. “I am wounded.”

She was stung. He didn’t want her there. She was in his way. She thought of how frightened she had been when he’d been injured the first time. How she had kept vigil, praying for his recovery. It had been a selfish act in part—she had wanted him back.

And yet, even as he glared at her, she felt the strong, unbroken connection sizzling between them. Even if she left the room, she would be linked with him. Why? If he didn’t want her to be with him, why was it there?

“Because it is my duty to protect you,” he said. She realized he’d heard her thoughts. He had told her that he couldn’t read her mind per se, but since she was new to her powers, she often unwittingly broadcast her thoughts. He couldn’t help but pick them up, any more than he couldn’t help but hear her when she spoke aloud.

He said more gently, “Allow me the dignity of receiving care in privacy.”

She still didn’t completely understand, but she did grasp that his need to have her gone was not about her. It was about him.

Then he looked down at her bathrobe. Loosely belted, it had fallen open, and her breasts were almost fully visible.

He said, “Never go anywhere without your gun. And the ring.” Then his eyes fluttered and he said something in French to Alain.

“Please, go,” Alain murmured to Izzy.

“D’accord,” she replied. “All right.”

 

She returned to her bedroom and shut the door behind herself. Bijou pushed out of her embrace and hopped to the floor, scampering toward his litter box. Weary and upset, Izzy crossed to the bed and saw the blinking light on her landline phone base, indicating that she had a message. It had to be Pat, wanting to know what the sirens had been for.

She called him immediately, not checking the message first. As Pat’s home phone rang, she pressed the handset against her shoulder with her head while she gathered up her rose quartz necklace from its coil on her nightstand and slid it around her neck. She fastened the clasp.

“Hello. This is Kittrell. I’m unavailable. Leave a message. Thanks.”

Maybe he was in the bathroom. Or on the line; maybe he was even calling her back, to see what was up. She said quickly, “Pat, it’s me. It’s okay. It was a false fire alarm.” That sounded so lame. “Well, actually, it was a fire, but it’s all right now.” She shut her eyes. That was even worse. She wasn’t thinking on her feet very well.

She hung up and dialed into her message system, fully expecting to hear Pat’s voice.

Instead, she got her father.

“Princess, listen to me. Brace yourself.”

She went numb. In a cop’s world, words like that could mean only one thing.

“Pat’s been shot, Iz. Doesn’t look good.”

Numb, Izzy sank down onto the bed. No. Her hands shook so hard she could barely hold on to the handset. Not Pat. No way.

“I’m thinking that if you care about this guy, you might want to catch the next plane,” he continued. “I can meet you at the airport. Call me, baby.”

That was it.

She sat frozen, trying to remember her own phone number, when another message began to play.

“This is Dr. Annie Jones. I’m attending a patient, Patrick Kittrell. He asked me to call you. He’s in surgery for a gunshot wound and I have to tell you that you might want to hurry.”

Dr. Jones gave the particulars—the hospital, the phone number. Izzy worked to remember them, then realized they were recorded and she would be able to write them down. Her gorge began to rise. She was hyperventilating.

She put the phone down without hanging it up and ran into the bathroom. She threw up, and then she burst into tears.

Calm down, she told herself. Stay on it.

She washed out her mouth and left the bathroom. Picked up the phone. Made some calls.

Picked up her gun.

 

When Alain came for her, she was dressed in Caresse’s hand-me-down jeans and a black turtleneck. The jeans were loose on her thin frame. As she had requested, he brought her a shoulder rig for her Medusa.

“He’s okay,” Alain said, over and over again. “The doctor sutured him back up and he’s going to pull through just fine.”

She had no idea if he was lying.

He escorted her through her mother’s chamber, through the room where the techs sat monitoring medical equipment and into the OR. It gave her pause that Jean-Marc had included an OR in her little mansion. Violence was never far away in this world.

Annette met them in the OR and led the way to another door, where she stopped, turned and faced Izzy square on.

“He’s conscious,” Annette informed Izzy. “But he’s groggy.”

“Docile,” Izzy murmured.

Making no reaction, Annette pushed the door open.

The room was beautiful, more like another clearing in the bayou than an actual room. Vases burst with a profusion of lilies and roses, and a waterfall trickled down a wall of stone. The Femmes Blanches sat in a circle around a wooden bed on a dais. And in that bed Jean-Marc lay, turning his head at the sound of the open door. His eyes met hers.

Oh, Jean-Marc, Izzy thought in a rush. She had the insane thought that if Jean-Marc had survived, then Pat had died. She knew she was overwrought, and that her thought was crazy, but she began to weep, tears sliding down her face to land on his cheek.

“I know about Pat,” he said. “I know it’s bad.”

She said, “You promised to keep him safe.”

“I did. From magical harm,” Jean-Marc replied. “But he’s a police detective. Harm is in love with him.”

It was such a bizarre thing to say. She reminded herself that Jean-Marc was medicated, and that English wasn’t his native language, but it still troubled her deeply.

Jean-Marc smiled grimly. He said, “Take the jet and go to him. Vite.”

She wasn’t going to argue. She wasn’t going to ask him what would happen back here if she did go.

She said, “Taking a private jet will raise questions.”

“Then lie about it,” he said. “Say you’re catching a puddle jumper. You’ll meet your father at the hospital. Keep it simple, and you’ll be fine.” He winced, then he said, “Alain is going with you. And the wolf pack.” When her lips parted, he said sharply, “Don’t argue.”

She flared and said, “Damn it, I wasn’t going to argue. I was going to thank you.”

“Ah.” His eyes crinkled. “There you are. I thought we had lost the warrior queen.”

You may have, she thought. She felt as if she were escaping prison, and very close to freedom. It dawned on her that she might insist on staying in New York and close the door on this part of her life forever. Wasn’t that what Le Fils had promised? She couldn’t think about that now. She had other things to think about.

She reached out and grabbed his hand. Sometimes she hated him. Sometimes she feared him. Even now, with him flat on his back and out of commission, she didn’t trust him. But the connection between them was still there, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was a fact of her existence now, just as possessing magical powers was part of her life.

He looked at her and said, “I don’t want you to go back there without me. But your mother is holding steady.”

“Jean-Marc and I performed a ritual to ask the Gray King to protect you,” Alain said, stepping forward. “I’ve asked Annette to lead the Femmes Blanches in a Bouvard ritual as well.”

“Then…I’ll pray,” Izzy announced. “Please, bow your heads.”

The veiled women complied. So did Alain and Annette, and in the bed, Jean-Marc closed his eyes. Izzy hesitated, remembering the shock on the faces of Mathilde and Louise when she had told them she was a Catholic, but the fact of the matter was, she was a Catholic. So she crossed herself. Then she placed her hands together, sliding her fingers one over the other, clenching them hard.

“I thank you, St. Joan, for your intercession,” Izzy prayed, still uncertain how to make her way as a practicing Catholic among these rituals of magic users, and the miracles Joan of Arc could perform. She did know one thing: she was in desperate need of more of those miracles. Many more.

“Protect these people, and restore Jean-Marc. And please, don’t let Pat Kittrell die. Please.”

“Blessed be,” Jean-Marc said, opening his eyes. “Now go.” His lids fluttered. “Hurry, Isabelle.”

His words frightened her. What did he know that she didn’t know?

“Here. You’ll need a coat,” Annette said, walking to a small cupboard and opening the door. A black wool ankle-length coat hung on a wooden hanger. She took it off the hanger and handed it to Izzy. “Stay warm. And safe.”

“You’ll take care of Bijou,” she said to Annette. When the woman nodded, Izzy tried to smile her thanks, but she couldn’t.

Tears welling, she turned.

The Femmes Blanches called to her in farewell.

“We will pray for you, notre belle fille.”

“It will be all right, chére petite.”

“Let’s go,” she ordered Alain.

“Adieu, Daughter of the Flames.”

T hree hours later, Big Vince met Izzy in the surgical waiting room at the Metropolitan, where they had taken Pat. She had already removed her shoulder holster and hidden it and her gun in a large carryall. It was like shedding a terrible burden. One look at her father’s big Italian eyes flashing with a mixture of worry and joy, and she thought, I’m home.

“Isabella,” he said, patting her back, “he’s still in surgery, but I told that doc if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll use little stitches.”

“Damn straight,” said Bill Wilson, one of the other detectives on the force. Cops from the Two-Seven were milling around, drinking coffee, talking tough to hide their feelings. Captain Clancy had called to say she’d be in in a while. Officers from Pat’s former precinct checked in as well. Pat was clearly well liked and respected.

In all the confusion, Big Vince didn’t ask a lot of questions about how Izzy had gotten back to New York so quickly, although by his conversation it was clear that he assumed she’d taken a commercial flight. Alain had put glamours on himself and the five werewolves who had accompanied them so that they appeared like hospital staff, blending into the background where they could guard the Daughter of the Flames and the men she loved.

Izzy learned for the first time that Jean-Marc had arranged for a contingent of seven Femmes Blanches to occupy the safehouse in Manhattan after he and Izzy had fled the city. The seven had kept vigil in the coop for the last couple of weeks, waiting in case any of Izzy’s loved ones needed them. Since magic use and magic users were officially banned from New York City, they had maintained a low profile. Izzy was grateful to them, and when they arrived singly and in pairs at the hospital dressed in street clothes—pants, coats, sweaters—she thanked each one with a bob of her head as they entered the surgical waiting room, pretending to be there for someone else in surgery.

Izzy’s father gave her the rundown: gutshot. Bad. According to the officer on the scene, Pat had been following someone down an alleyway when he’d been gunned down. He hadn’t called in and he hadn’t asked for backup. He’d left his apartment in Brooklyn, driven to 108th Street and walked right into the shooter’s line of fire. A passerby saw him and called it in, but didn’t stick around.

Izzy and Big Vince sat huddled together on one of the plastic couches. An hour after Izzy had arrived, her brother Gino showed up accompanied by Father Raymond, their parish priest. A seminary student, Gino wore civvies—gray turtleneck sweater, black wool pants, fashionable haircut—looking more like a GQ model than some studly young priest-to-be devoted to lifelong celibacy.

Gino gave Iz a kiss on the cheek and held her tightly as he said, “He’s going to be okay, Iz.” But of course those were just empty words. When she was a little girl, she had believed Father O’Rourke when he had said the same thing about Anna Maria DeMarco. And she had died.

Father Raymond led the DeMarco family in prayer, Big Vince handed Izzy Anna Maria’s cherished rosary and Izzy had a visual of her father knocking around alone in their row house while she was “in Florida” and Gino was away at the seminary. She felt a gentle pity for him, and a lot of harsh guilt.

It’s all right, chére, the Femmes Blanches told her. We’re here for you.

Father Raymond asked gently if Pat was a Catholic.

“United Methodist,” Izzy answered, although she knew even that was stretching it. Pat wasn’t a churchgoer.

“I’ll see if they have a Protestant chaplain on staff,” Father Raymond said. He gave Izzy’s shoulder a squeeze and left the waiting room.

After another minute or so, Izzy said, “I need to use the ladies’.”

She got up and looked over at the seven women, three of whom were stretched out on the couches and chairs as if they were dozing. The other four were pretending to read magazines. But she could feel the strength of their magical vibrations continually weaving protective wards around her, her brother and father.

One of them caught her eye and blinked, rising and sauntering out of the room with Izzy. Alain met them in the hall. He wore the glamour of a handsome young Japanese man. She felt a pang. Jean-Marc had come for her a number of times disguised with Asian features.

He said, “I heard some nurses talking in the break room. He’s out of surgery. They’re taking him to surgical recovery.” He looked at the Femme Blanche. “Odette, get the women and I’ll put glamours on you. You can go in as ICU nurses and do some work on him in there.”

The woman bowed her head. “Oui, monsieur,” she said deferentially.

“What about me?” Izzy asked Alain. “You could put a glamour on me so I could go in, too.”

“Too awkward,” he said, shaking his head. “You’d be missed.” Seeing her agitation, he added, “You have to remain strong, Blanche Neige. You have to.” He hesitated. “I have a scrying stone tuned in to what’s happening in New Orleans. Everything is peaceful. Jean-Marc’s up and about.”

He pulled out the stone and held it out to her. It was a small crystal, and the viewing area was about an inch square.

Jean-Marc was in his bedroom, lying in bed, reading stapled pages from what looked to be a stack of reports beside him on the nightstand. The dark-blue sheets hung loose around his waist. His clean-shaven chest was covered with gauze bandages but whorls of black hair surrounded his navel.

Bijou was curled up beside his hip, asleep, and Jean-Marc absently stroked the kitten, stopping as he turned the stapled page of a report. The kitten mewed, and he resumed petting him.

She swallowed hard and handed the crystal back to Alain. He waved a hand at her. “That one is for you,” he said, closing her fist around it.

Then he took a breath. “You know my cousin cares a lot for you.”

Her cheeks went hot. She nodded, meeting his gaze.

“You need to know something about Gifted. We don’t tend to marry outside our own families. That’s part of the reason the Bouvards are having a hard time accepting you. Your line is matrilineal, but it is very important to them that your father is a Bouvard, and we haven’t been able to establish that.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, because she had a feeling that they weren’t discussing her parentage at the moment. And…it hurt. She knew a door was closing.

“My cousin’s the son of our guardien,” he went on. “And he’ll probably become the guardien when his father dies. It’s not guaranteed, as it is—or is said to be—in your family. But he’ll be expected to carry on the line. With a woman who is a Devereaux.”

And the door shut.

“Got it,” she said tersely.

He looked sad. “I would love to have you in our family,” he continued, reaching out a hand.

“Hélas,” she said flippantly, mimicking his accent to hide her acute disappointment and embarrassment. I never wanted him in that way, she told herself. I’m Pat’s.

Alain cleared his throat. “The other side of this coin is Pat. He’s Ungifted. He wouldn’t be suitable for the Daughter of the Flames, either.”

She blinked at him. Said nothing. Inwardly she was reeling. She hadn’t known that. Hadn’t realized it was anyone’s business but her own.

It’s not. This isn’t the Middle Ages. I didn’t grow up with these rules. They don’t apply to me.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, her voice stone cold.

“Blanche Neige,” he began, clasping her icy fingers.

She gave her head a quick shake, warning him off, and he released her. Then she returned to the waiting room, pretending that it was news when Pat’s surgeon arrived and gave them a rundown of his injuries—two shots to the abdomen, damage to the spleen and a kidney. She pretended not to notice that the Femmes Blanches were no longer in the waiting room. She thanked the doctor, who said Pat couldn’t be seen just yet. She read magazines and watched the clock.

Her father had to go to work. She told him to go. Gino stayed with her. He asked her if there was anyone she wanted him to call. Half the force was in the room already, and one of the other detectives announced that Captain Clancy was on her way.

“No, thank you,” Izzy said, continuing to stare at the same page of the same magazine that she had stared at for at least half an hour.

“All right,” the surgeon said, returning to the room. All heads turned. “He’s doing well, and he’s asking for Izzy.” He looked at her. “I assume that’s you.”

“Woo-hoo!” Officer Wilson whooped. “Kittrell, you dog!”

Some of the other cops followed suit, until Izzy was rolling her eyes and telling them to shut up. They were far more interested in her now than they ever had been before, as if the fact that there was competition added to her attractiveness.

She eagerly picked up the carryall that contained her magical gun, and went to join Pat.

 

The Femmes Blanches had grouped around Pat’s bed, which was shielded from the bed farther from the door by a light-blue curtain. They were holding hands with each other and with him. Izzy detected a faint white glow around his body. There were so many tubes going into and out of him that the women looked as though they were dancing a Maypole dance.

As she came into the room, he turned his head and smiled at her. His color was good, and his smile was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. His green eyes gleamed when Izzy drew near.

“Hey,” she said, bending down to brush her lips over his. She closed her eyes against the sudden rush of emotion. He could have died. She had prayed for him all the way from New Orleans to New York. But she had prayed for Anna Maria DeMarco, too, and she had still died.

“Wanna ’nother one,” he said, sighing contentedly as she complied, lingering at his mouth. She felt New Orleans sliding away as she cupped his cheek. It had all been a bad dream.

If only.

As she pulled away, he said, “Hey, Iz, how come I have so many nurses?”

The woman nearest Izzy said in a low voice, “The other bed is unoccupied. We gather whenever he’s left alone.”

“Merci bien,” Izzy said. She put her hand on Pat’s forehead and stroked the faint white lines in the tanned face. He was sweaty. She closed her eyes and willed energy into her palm. But nothing happened. Disappointed, she kept her hand in place, and took the empty plastic-covered seat beside him on the bed. Then she trailed her fingers down his cheek.

Pat said, “Gather for…?”

“It’s okay,” she said, both to him and the women. “It’s kind of…woo-woo Catholic stuff. If you wouldn’t mind…”

He raised a brow. “If it makes you happy, it’s fine.”

And here it was, the difference between Pat and Jean-Marc. Jean-Marc would have been all over her, asking her questions, demanding more substantial answers. Pat took things in stride, while Jean-Marc was perpetually coiled with tension and suspicion.

Stop comparing them. There’s no “either-or” here. There’s nothing here. Remember what Alain told you.

Nothing in her believed that.

“A nurse is en route,” one of the Femmes Blanches told Izzy. “We’ll come back later.”

They filed out. About a minute later, a nurse arrived to check Pat’s vitals. She suggested Izzy step out to give him some privacy, and she did so. Across the way, the Asian doctor nodded at her, and she nodded back. Alain was close by. He was guarding them.

When the nurse was finished, she told Izzy she could go back in. As she sat back down in the chair, Pat looked hard at her and said, “I’m awake now.”

“Yes.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. He didn’t react, and she pulled back slightly.

Pat said, “We need to talk.”

“Okay,” she said over the pounding of her heart. He knew something. What, and how much? “Go.”

“After you hung up last night, I got a call. Guy said he was a friend of yours, and he wanted to talk to me about where you really were. Gave me a location in our part of town. I should have called it in, but it was personal.” He grimaced as he shifted his weight in the bed. “I thought he meant you were with someone.”

Where she really was? She swallowed down her anxiety. “Who was it?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me,” he said slowly. “I got there, and he was in the shadows. He wouldn’t come out where I could see him. So I went into the alley, just like a damn rookie.” He gave his head a shake of disgust. Then he shut his eyes and licked his lips.

“Do you need something for the pain?” she asked him.

He opened his eyes and shook his head again. “I told them to hold off until I had a chance to talk to you.

“The guy told me you killed Esposito. Then he said he had a message from someone called Le Fils. That you’d be safe here in New York. That things were going to get hotter in New Orleans. That if you’d come back here, they’d spare you. But if you stayed in New Orleans, they would rip your soul right out of your body.”

Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. She had no idea what to say.

“Then I guess he shot me. And I think he called 911 so I’d be around to deliver his message. I’ll know if it was him when I listen to the dispatcher’s recording.”

“Oh, my God,” she croaked.

“Iz.” He studied her, confusion coming off him in waves. “Talk to me. Now.”

 

So she did. Willing him to believe, she shut Pat’s door and told him everything—her recurring nightmare, the fabricant assassin who had almost killed her. How Jean-Marc had rescued her and disclosed her legacy, and started to train her. Then they’d gotten out of New York when Le Fils turned up the heat. And she’d been living in the bayou.

“With some werewolves,” Pat deadpanned. “And you took Esposito out yourself. In a battle. And you’ve been in Louisiana all this time, lying to me.”

“To protect you,” she insisted, withering inside. Whether or not he believed all of it, telling him was a mistake. She didn’t want to put him in harm’s way. Alain was across the hall. What did the Gifted do to Ungifted who weren’t supposed to know about them?

“Protect me,” he repeated.

“I know it’s a lot to accept. I know it sounds crazy.”

“It does.” He was quiet for a long time. Then he heaved a long, drawn-out sigh. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She could hardly believe it.

“Remember when you had that vision that your father was in the burning building? And I told you I had a funny feeling like that once?”

“Yes.” She had hoped back then that he would talk about it, and then she could have told him what was going on. But that hadn’t happened.

“It was when my wife died. I knew it was going to happen. I saw it. We fought and she took the car.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. Izzy had to lean in to hear his next works. “She was pregnant. I yelled at her to come back in the house. Really yelled. I scared her. She took off.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Izzy promised him, placing both her hands in his.

“It started raining. Hard.”

“Pat.” She gathered him up in her arms and rested his head against her breasts. Her heart filled with sorrow. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the crown of his head.

“I saw the accident. It was as if I were inside the car with her…and our child. I saw her crying. She wasn’t paying attention to the road and that damn drunk drifted across the line. She could have swerved, but she was too upset, and I saw her die.”

“Oh, God, Pat,” she whispered. She held him. And at long last, the tough, alpha-male detective shuddered against her, drowning in grief. She sensed he had never fully acknowledged the depth of his shame, and she was serving as his witness now. She honored his trust and held him as he mourned.

“And so,” he said finally, when he was spent, “a part of me actually believes you.”

She took that in, and she was grateful down to her soul. It was easier than she had expected. But then, from the get-go, Pat was more than she had expected.

“But just part of me.” He shook his head. “The rest of me thinks you’re plumb crazy.”

“Captain Clancy knows. She’s coming to see you later,” Izzy said. “She can discuss it with you.”

“Oh, great. My boss is nuts, too.” She saw him struggling, trying to believe, to understand. She remembered her own struggle, and how she had echoed the prayer of Doubting Thomas: “Lord, I believe. Help thou mine unbelief.”

Then, as he eased her back down into her chair, he said, “I will never let another woman I love put herself in danger.”

His face was rock hard, his jaw clenched. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Do you understand me? Whatever the reason you were there, what…cause you’re fighting for, it’s done. You’re not going back to New Orleans. I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you back there.”

“How are we doing?” Alain-as-the-doctor asked cheerfully from the doorway, staring at her. She realized he was trying to speak to her telepathically, and she concentrated, trying to hear him. But she couldn’t hear Alain. Not a syllable.

So she said aloud, “He knows.”

“Merde,” Alain grunted. He ticked his glance to Pat. “So. You understand that she no longer belongs to herself.”

“I sure as hell do not know that.” Pat raised his head, reached for his covers and tried to throw them back. “And if you think you’re dragging her back there—”

Alain moved his hands and recited some words in Latin.

Pat’s eyes rolled back in his head. He went boneless and his head lolled against his pillow, chin falling to one side. Izzy jumped to her feet, pushing the chair between herself and Alain.

“What did you do to him?” she cried.

“Only made him sleep. I swear it.” His false face was etched with sincerity. “I mean him no harm. Nor you. I am trying to stop harm from coming to you.”

At a standoff, they stared at each other. Then she knew. Her stomach dropped and her blood turned to ice. Whatever it was, it was bad.

“Something has happened.”

“Oui. Jean-Marc just contacted me. Your mother is deteriorating. We have to go back. Now.”

She felt a wave of panic, but she tamped it down. She remained silent.

He repeated, “We must go.”

She knew then that something, somewhere, was giving her a choice. It was as if Alain were standing on one end of a bridge, and she on the other. If she took a step toward him—if she said yes, if she left—she was going to cross that bridge. And once she did, it might very well burn behind her. There would be no turning back.

“No,” she said, holding on to the back of the chair. “I’m out. I’m staying in New York.”

“Isabelle, you must. She is dying.” He ran a hand over his face, and his true features appeared. “Tell me what happened,” he said. “Tell me what changed.”

“Le Fils had him shot,” she said. “As a warning to me. He said he’ll spare me if I stay here. He told me that in the bayou, too, via a minion. But if I go back, he’ll rip out my soul.” She flushed. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t that he would rip out her soul. It was that he might come after Pat again. And her family.

Alain closed his eyes and swore under his breath. “He’s lying. He won’t stop. The only way to stop is to take him out. And you can’t take him out here. He’s in New Orleans.”

“Not my problem. Pat is my problem. Big Vince is my problem. And Gino,” she said. “Jean-Marc promised me they would be safe if I left. But they’ll be safer if I stay.” She wondered if she could grab her gun faster than he could zap her with magical energy.

“They won’t ever be safe again until Le Fils is destroyed,” Alain insisted. “He’s after the downfall of the House of the Flames. Whether you like it or not, you are the House of the Flames. Alors, Blanche Neige, look at what’s happening.” He gestured to the scrying stone in her pocket.

Against her better judgment, she did as he asked, pulling out the stone and staring into it. She saw her mother, gaunt and sunken, like a corpse.

“No,” she whispered, trembling, stricken. “Maman.”

“I’m leaving all the werewolves here except Andre,” he told her. “I’m sending for Devereaux and Bouvard special ops to occupy the city. Now that Kittrell knows, he can cooperate with them fully.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. “We’ll call Clancy. We can make a plan with her. Now that Pat is on our side, we have resources that you didn’t have before. But you can’t stay here. Le Fils won’t stop.”

She whipped up her head and reached for Pat’s limp hand. She wrapped her fingers around it and tried to infuse her magical power into his body. Her palm was still cool.

“Pat is not on our side. He’s an innocent bystander. And I nearly got him killed.”

Alain gestured at Pat and snapped his fingers. Izzy’s cowboy let out a gentle, peaceful sigh in his sleep. He sounded untroubled, like a man whose body was healing.

“You know that’s not true,” Alain insisted. “Give him the credit that he deserves. He won’t stand by. He’s a protector, like you. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for you.”

Her thoughts whirled. She fought for calm, for the eye of the storm. Sensing her indecision, Alain kept up his persuasive litany. “Pat can protect your father and your brother with our help. We’ll give him backup. We’ll do all we can. But we have to go. We have to go now.” He held the phone out to her. “Make calls. Take action. Make a plan.”

“Where was the backup when he got shot?” Izzy shouted. Then she lowered her voice. “How could you let this happen?” she asked brokenly.

“It was negligent,’ he confessed, dipping his head. “And I’m sorry. But we have to go back.” He shook the phone at her. “Please. Call.”

The bridge loomed in front of her, a rickety suspension bridge hanging above a bottomless pit. What if it broke beneath her weight?

Isabelle, said the voice. This is your battle.

“Damn you,” Izzy said, grabbing the phone. Clenching it against her chest, she narrowed her eyes at Alain and said, “Get out.”

“I can’t leave here without you.”

She looked at the man in the bed. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Her voice was as hard and cold as she could make it. She glared at him and said, “Close the door. Secure it. Make sure no one comes in.”

“What are you going to do?” Alain asked, and then his face softened. “Of course,” he said. “Oui. You’re right to do it.”

She flushed, but she didn’t have time for niceties like coyness or modesty. Before Alain had left the room, she started shucking off her clothes.

Sex magic was the most potent magic of all, Jean-Marc had told her. He had told her to go to bed with Pat to protect him. And she had.

Pat was just out of surgery, so she didn’t know how far to take this. But she got completely naked and put her hand around his penis. It stiffened. She trailed her fingers along his chest, and then over her own nipples. She willed herself to arousal—a daunting task, given her fear level. But she was determined to do all she could to protect Patrick Kittrell from harm.

 

About ten minutes later she opened the door to the hallway. She was dressed. The carryall was slung over her shoulder.

She said, “My father’s gone to work, but Gino’s still in the waiting room. I want to say goodbye to my brother before I go.”

Alain hesitated. He said, “One of les Femmes Blanches is wearing a glamour. He thinks she’s you.”

“Call her out,” Izzy said. “I’m telling him goodbye.”

Alain inclined his head. “Oui, Guardienne,” he said, and went to do as she ordered.

“Not yet,” Izzy whispered brokenly, watching him go.

I t was still dark out when Georges, Maurice and a full complement of armored Bouvard and Devereaux ops picked Izzy, Alain and Andre up at the private airstrip in the bayou outside New Orleans. Alain and Izzy climbed into an armor-plated Humvee. Four camouflaged trucks quickly formed a shield around them. Andre was to be driven back to the werewolves’ camp in a separate Humvee, guarded just as well.

The plan was for Izzy and Alain to meet Jean-Marc in the convening chamber. He had already taken Marianne there, and scheduled an emergency meeting of the Grand Covenate to witness the anticipated transfer of power from Marianne to her daughter, Isabelle. He wanted all the families, clans and tribes to acknowledge Izzy’s status as guardienne as soon as it was conferred upon her—by Marianne’s death. It was horrible, ghoulish, but on the flight from New York, Izzy had prepared herself for its inevitability, observing her mother’s steady deterioration in the scrying stone.

As she had expected, word of her return had spread among the Bouvards. The verandahs of the House of the Flames were packed with people, cheering, screaming, jeering. Bouvard and Devereaux ops were stationed everywhere, submachine guns slung across their chests.

She thought of Joan of Arc, who had been dragged from her prison in a tumbrel to her funeral pyre. The young woman, only nineteen years old, had been found guilty of witchcraft, and sentenced to burn at the stake.

This isn’t that dire, Izzy told herself, but the truth was, she was scared to death.

When they got out of the armored vehicle, the hysteria in the mansion reached fever pitch. Izzy found herself obsessed with worrying about Bijou. Displacement, she realized—focusing on something else as a denial of her real source of anxiety.

Surrounded by guards, Alain hustled her through the side entrance. The twin metallic knights blocked their entrance, parting only when she told them her name. They descended many more flights of stairs than when she had gone to read Esposito’s corpse.

“Michel is already in there,” Alain informed her. “And Mirielle.”

Mirielle was the oldest living de Bouvard. Her daughter had been the regent before Jean-Marc, and rumor had it that she had been murdered. She regarded Izzy as an interloper; she had told Izzy so herself when they had first met.

“And Luc de Malchance will be there,” she said. The guardien of the House of the Blood, and, quite possibly, the Gifted who was backing Le Fils’s bid to destroy the House of the Flames.

“Oui,” Alain said. “N’ayez pas de peur. He won’t be able to touch you or enchant you. The convening chamber is exactly like a modern-day teleconferencing room.” With pride, he added, “Except that we had that technology hundreds of years ago.”

Their security contingent pressed in close. Georges was on point, and Maurice took up the rear as the large group descended. Alain held up a glowing crystal, which revealed letters and symbols carved deeply into the stone walls. The carvings gave way to metal charms, such as had been in the tunnel from the bedroom to the exterior of the mansion. The walls and overhanging ceiling glittered with them.

Then the stone walls gave way to outcroppings of rock. The charms on them were jagged and cracked, with pieces missing. The air thickened with the odor of mud and decomposition. The stairs became uneven stone, slippery with moss. The roof lowered, and Izzy felt squeezed and claustrophobic.

“This is the oldest of your sacred places in the New World,” Alain said. “The first guardienne to come to New Orleans created it. It is very holy to you.”

Maurice and the other ops turned a corner. Then he said in a ringing voice, “Qui est lá?”

Izzy moved forward, craning her neck to see.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sophie, who was Michel de Bouvard’s assistant, stood with Superintendent of NOPD Broussard, the rotund Mayor Gelineau, Governor Jackson and Sange the vampire. Sophie held a glowing crystal to see by, and she looked upset. Sange’s long white ringlets of hair brushed the waist of a clinging black catsuit. Her mouth was open, and her jeweled fangs glittered in the light.

“Bon soir, mesdames et messieurs. Are you here to witness the transfer?” Alain asked them. “You know that you’re welcome to stay here. But only Gifted may attend a meeting of the Grand Covenate.”

The governor swept a curious gaze up and down Izzy’s form. He said, “I was beginning to think something had happened to you. Why haven’t you met with us?”

“We’re not here for that,” Sange interrupted him. She looked expectantly at the mayor.

Gelineau cleared his throat; he regarded the party somberly and said, “Some of Madame Sange’s sirelings have pinpointed Le Fils’s position. He’s in the tunnels beneath that old convent on Rue de Casconnes. We want you to take him out.”

Alain nodded. “D’accord, Monsieur,” he said. “We have important business here, oui? Once it is concluded, we’ll send some ops and—”

Sange nudged the mayor with her elbow.

“We mean now,” Gelineau cut in.

Alain paused. Then he said to Sophie, “Did you speak about this to Michel or Jean-Marc?”

“They were already in the chamber when the gentlemen and the lady arrived,” Sophie said, looking awkward and afraid. “I tried to enter the convening chamber, but this is as far as I could go. It’s warded against anyone’s entry except yours and Madame’s. And I can’t get their attention inside the chamber.”

Alain remained calm as he said to her, “As you know, Sophie, we believe that our guardienne is about to place the Kiss of Fire on her daughter. Please take our guests upstairs and I will be with you when I can.”

“Le Fils du Diable is there now,” Sange said, enunciating each word as if Alain was hard of hearing. “Just tell your men to come with us.”

“I will be there,” Alain bit off, “when I can.”

“Damn it, this beats all,” Gelineau said. “You get some manpower on this or I’m dissolving the politesse right now.”

“Sir, please get away from the door,” Alain said. Izzy’s eyes widened as his palm began to glow with a deep blue tint. Would he actually attack the mayor if he didn’t move?

Gelineau’s face went purple. He clearly wasn’t used to refusals. “That’s it. I want this so-called family out of New Orleans in thirty days,” Gelineau said.

“Please, get away now,” Alain repeated. ‘I’ll take madame inside, and then I’ll come right back out.”

“No,” Gelineau said.

And Izzy realized with a shock that he might be trying to prevent the transfer from taking place. Was he in league with Le Fils?

Alain raised a hand, and en masse, the Bouvard and Devereaux special ops raised their weapons.

Oh, my God, this is awful, Izzy thought, trembling. What the hell are we going to do, shoot him?

Then she felt exactly as if someone had hit her with the taser; the world dissolved to gray, and blood roared in her veins. She wobbled on the stair; then she could no longer see the stair. She could see nothing, hear nothing. Her body was numb.

And then she fell into a vision:

 

Jehanne, in her shining armor, dipped her head as she knelt before the priest in his long robes, the cross dangling from his sash. The battlefield was the valley below, and the enemy troops—the English—clanked with armor and weapons as they assembled on the opposite side. Horses chuffed. It would be the first time she led her troops into battle.

And her last.

“Hear my confession and bless me, mon pére, ” she begged the priest. She was shaking. She had already vomited all her breakfast behind a bush. She had no idea how she would ride into battle, how she would carry her banner or raise her sword. To do these things was to die. “If you do not, I shall be damned when I am cut down.”

The priest, loyal to France, frowned down on her. Jehanne’s name was on the lips of every brother in the monastery, every good sister in the nearby convent. The sun made a corona on the crown of her helmet, like the halo of a saint. All of France awaited her miracle.

“Do you believe you will die this day, Jehanne? In your first battle?”

“Oui, ” she said fervently, pressing her sweating palms together and raising them toward him. “I am only a girl. What can I do against them? It was madness that brought me to this day, and not my voices.”

The man of God towered over her. Then he shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Then I will not bless you, Jehanne. If you die today, you will be damned. Your soul will suffer in hell for all eternity.”

“What?” Clutching the cowl of her chain mail, she stared up at him in horror. “What are you saying? If I die—”

“If you die,” he said, with emphasis. “So…don’t die.” He smiled thinly at her. “Come back to me after you have won the day, and I will bless you thirty times thirty. I will say more masses for you than for the Pope. If you survive.”

 

Then she saw herself training with Jean-Marc, saw the thickness of her magical aura increasing as she stared at the fabricant, anticipating its attack. How he had forced her to be stressed so that she would access more of her Gift.

I’m not ready, she thought. I haven’t awakened enough of my power for the transfer of power from my mother to me to work. I have to be tested in battle.

Yes. Exactement, said the voice in her head. You wanted to become a police officer. A protector. Is that not what you are here for? Take one more step on the bridge, Isabelle de Bouvard, Maison des Flammes. Take it now.

Oh, God. He said he’d tear my soul from my body.

And he will, unless you kill him first. Do it, Guardienne. Or he will tear down your House.

 

She came out of the vision. Saw the raised weapons, the looks of outrage on the faces of the Ungifted officials. In Gelineau’s case, it was not sincere. Did no one else see that? Frustration and amusement warred on Sange’s features, and her blood-red eyes watched Izzy.

“Wait,” Izzy said aloud.

All eyes shifted to her.

Do it, said the voice.

Izzy raised her head. “I’ll go, Mayor Gelineau. I’ll take some ops, and I’ll kill Le Fils for you.”

Disbelieving silence was Gelineau’s response.

Then Sange clapped her hands together. “Et voila. Brava.” She pointed at Izzy. “There is a guardienne.”

“Est-ce-que vous êtes folle?” Alain demanded. “I can’t permit this. I won’t let you do this.”

“It’s not up to you,” she said. “It’s up to me.”

 

Jean-Marc canceled the meeting with the Grand Covenate. He sealed Marianne in the convening chamber with a sharpshooter team, a dozen Femmes Blanches, Annette and her doctor. Based on her examination, it was the physician’s opinion that the guardienne would die soon.

Michel and Mirielle were shut out of the chamber. Jean-Marc warded the door with Devereaux magic, violating the terms of his regency to prevent them from re-entering, and Michel and Mirielle were livid.

“There will be consequences for all of this!” Michel shrieked in utter fury.

“You are taking over our House,” Mirielle chimed in, her gray hair flying around her face, giving her the aspect of a demon. “I knew you would do it some day. You lying Devereaux thugs!”

Jean-Marc ignored them, running Izzy to ground in one of the lower levels of the mansion, where special ops conducted their briefings, and weapons and ammo were stowed. Sange was debriefing the operatives about Le Fils’s last-known location.

Stomping over to Izzy and grabbing her arm, he whirled her around and clamped down hard. “What are you doing? You mother is dying. You need to be here! And you need to be alive!”

“I had a vision,” she said, not resisting his grip. Since having it, a strange calm had overcome her, and she knew she was on a journey that she must finish. She knew she had to do this. Whatever the outcome, she knew this was her next step, and there was surprising peace in surrendering to it. “I’m right, Jean-Marc. I have to take on Le Fils.”

His black-brown eyes flashed with anger as he shook her, bending down to gaze directly in her face. “You are completely delusional. That is not what your vision meant. You are not supposed to go up against Le Fils. Now come back with me to the convening chamber now.”

She said nothing.

He raked his fingers through his hair and dropped his hands to his sides with a huff. Then he made a fist and slammed it into the nearest wall. Sange and the ops forces glanced over, glanced away. Jean-Marc continued talking.

“Isabelle, attends-moi. When I was in surgery, you had an entire vision of a life you never led. You dreamed you were a police officer. And you are not. But it seemed very real to you. Do you remember how mixed up you were?”

Although she had already thought of that, his words nearly shook her conviction. Inside she flailed for a moment, feeling lost, as she had been in so many nightmares. Then she found the path again, and she said, “I’m the Daughter of the Flames. If I’m not ready for the Kiss of Fire, and my mother dies…then what?”

“How can you not be ready, if you’re her daughter?” Jean-Marc shouted. Heads turned. He launched into a barrage of French.

Alain crossed over to him and began speaking to him in a placating tone of voice. Jean-Marc was obviously not ready to listen. He was wild.

Sange came up to Izzy, tilting her head and tsk-tsking with disapproval as she crossed her arms over her chest. She said, “I used to argue like that with Le Fils. Isn’t love crazy?”

“It’s not love,” Izzy said flatly as she watched the two cousins arguing. Then Jean-Marc slammed out of the room.

Alain took a step in the direction Jean-Marc had gone. He raised his arms, then let them drop; his shoulders slumped and he dejectedly crossed over to Izzy, saying apologetically, “He has a point. If you die—””

“I won’t,” she said. “I can’t.”

Alain looked almost as frustrated as Jean-Marc.

“My sirelings are ready,” Sange informed them. “It will be dawn soon. We should go.”

“All right,” Izzy said. She thought to call Pat, but she decided against it. They didn’t have much time. Besides, she didn’t know what she would say.

In her bedroom, she dressed quickly in her chosen black cargo pants, black T-shirt, thin jacket and body armor. They loaded into nondescript but heavily warded cars, she and Alain in the passenger seats of a gray Toyota Camry. Jean-Marc was behind the wheel, and he said nothing to her.

It began to rain, hard. As Izzy stared out the tinted window, white faces blurred like reflections in the shadows at the mouths of alleys, on verandahs, just beyond the glow of the streetlamps.

“Vampires,” Alain said. “Sange’s. Remember, they’re not human. And no matter what pretty stories you’ve read, they feed on human blood. They don’t drink from animals. They’re vicious killers.”

“And they’re our allies.”

“Oui,” Alain said. “So if you have to kill a friendly to get to one of Le Fils’s vampires, do it.”

“Got it,” she replied, feeling the bulky pockets of her cargo pants for her antivampire supplies.

Jean-Marc parked in the lot behind a bed and breakfast near Jackson Square. Other cars pulled up, as well. The occupants got out in ones and twos, staggering their exits through the driving rain and entering the back door of the bed and breakfast with calculated imprecision, as if they were tourists getting out of the rain, or paying customers with room reservations.

Jean-Marc and Alain flanked Izzy. Jean-Marc still hadn’t spoken to her, and she wondered when he would.

They made an immediate left into a storage room. Moonlight streamed in through a grimy window, revealing a curled-up carpet and a trapdoor in the floor with the lid thrown open. She peered in, to see one of the ops guys from the cars scaling down a rope ladder.

Alain went down next, leaving Izzy alone with Jean-Marc. For a few moments he was stony. Then, with a sigh, he gazed at her with a tenderness she rarely saw, and laid his hand over hers.

He said, “For the love of your patronesse, don’t die.”

The thought came to her: I won’t die, but he might.

“I might,” he said, having heard her. “But I would prefer it to your own death.” He glowered at her. “Remain in a defensive position. You’re surrounded by professionally trained soldiers. Let them handle it. Don’t take stupid chances.”

“I won’t die,” she said again. “Don’t you die, either.”

He began to say something, then closed his mouth and gave her a nod.

“All right. I won’t. So, we have a truce,” he said.

“We do.”

Taking a breath, she climbed down carefully. Hands eased her off the ladder and she put her boot down in a couple inches of standing water. She looked around, surprised at the size of the tunnel. It was a New-York size aperture, practically big enough for a subway line.

Jean-Marc came down after her, seeming none the worse for wear despite his recent injuries. He had overdone it before, and he was Type A enough to do it again. There was nothing she could do about that.

In addition to the security operatives, Sange and a dozen or so vampires were already below. She had on skintight pants and body armor much like Izzy’s. Her long hair was pulled back into a shiny platinum rope.

Sange didn’t seem to have minions, only full vampires. Izzy had only encountered vampire minions when engaged in battle with Le Fils, and she wondered if good guys didn’t have them.

The other vampires, equally divided between male and female, were dressed like commandos in jackets, black pants, boots and bulletproof vests. Their red eyes made it impossible to read their expressions. With their long, white faces, they reminded Izzy of rats. Sange was far more attractive than any of her followers. Izzy wondered how that worked. A few of them were smoking cigarettes, which fascinated her. She didn’t know very much about vampires yet, didn’t know if their hearts beat and their lungs held breath.

She wondered why they wanted to take on Le Fils so badly. She gathered there were old wounds and lots of hate, and she supposed that was all there needed to be to wish someone dead.

Sange jabbed a finger into the darkness. “He’s about half a mile up the sewer line. They’re transporting another load of boxes to the convent.”

“How many vampires does he have with him?” Alain asked.

“No more than six,” Sange said. “No minions. Whatever he’s doing, it’s something he doesn’t trust his nest with.”

Sange regarded the operatives as they locked and loaded, grimacing as they crammed their garlic and crosses into their cargo pockets. They checked each other’s body-armor bolts. “What level are they?”

“Some seventh, mostly eighth.”

“Good,” Sange said. “You’ll need them.”

They moved out. The vampires clustered in the front and the rear, while Sange walked close to Izzy, violating her personal space all to hell. Jean-Marc and Alain flanked them.

“Half a mile isn’t far,” the vampire said. “We’ll be there in no time. So be ready.”

They slogged on, then the party went silent, concentrating, staying alert. Darkness fell over them like a net. Izzy stumbled a few times while the others walked steadily onward, skirting bits of debris and potholes. She was positive they could see in the dark.

I need to see, too, she thought.

Ice water poured over her brain. Then suddenly she saw everyone around her in a sort of green, night-vision aura. Jean-Marc marched, grim and determined, beside her; Sange’s red eyes darted as she surveyed her surroundings.

Then another cold chill splashed over Izzy like a bucket of ice. Words formed in her brain:

He is coming.

Look to your gun.

I zzy pulled out her Medusa as she walked through the shrouded tunnel. Jean-Marc took note and gave her a questioning frown.

Look, said the voice.

On impulse, she turned around and craned her neck to see past the special ops and vampires behind her. About twenty yards in the direction they had just come, a shimmering white figure wearing a shirt of chain mail and a knight’s helmet stood in the center of the tunnel. She was holding a sword in her right hand.

It’s Jehanne.

Izzy pointed at her. Jean-Marc cocked his head, then looked back at Izzy, and shrugged.

He doesn’t see her.

Jehanne lifted her sword and waved it slowly, like a pennant. She was moving in slow motion, as if in a dream. Distant and subtle, armor clanked. Horses chuffed. Tack jingled.

“We have to turn around,” Izzy whispered.

“Mais non,” Jean-Marc whispered back. “Sange’s recon puts him up ahead. We’re just meters from contact.”

“Sange is wrong,” she insisted.

Jean-Marc pursed his lips and looked over his shoulder again. Jehanne was still there. He shook his head, seeing nothing.

Alain leaned in to see what was going on, and she repeated what she had just told Jean-Marc.

“Blanche Neige’s instincts were right when we went to search for Michel,” Alain reminded Jean-Marc. “And she saw the vassal.”

“I have full confidence in my recon,” Sange insisted. “Let’s go.”

“In a minute,” Jean-Marc snapped. “Isabelle, are you certain?”

Izzy watched the figure. It slowly faded.

No!

“Yes,” she managed. But suddenly, she wasn’t sure. Where was Jehanne? Why had she disappeared?

Sange glided silently toward her sirelings, who were gathered together in a huddle. While they conferred, Maurice rounded up the ops forces and pointed to the place where Izzy had seen Jehanne.

Sange returned to Izzy’s side, saying, “I’m sending half of my sirelings on the original route. Give me some operatives to accompany them. Just in case.”

Stiff-lipped and terse, Jean-Marc reconfigured the detail. Sange and six vampires joined Izzy’s party, and the party rapidly retraced their steps. This time she was far more sure-footed. She kept her eyes trained on the center of the tunnel, but Jehanne did not reappear. Maybe the patronesse was satisfied that Izzy had understood.

Maybe Izzy’s ability to see her had been tapped out.

Maybe I made a mistake.

She wouldn’t think like that. She couldn’t afford the luxury of doubting herself.

 

Izzy wasn’t sure how long they crept along, but they were well past their starting point. This part of the tunnel was filled with the stinking rubble and junk Sange had told them about—several castoff refrigerators, even a rusted car. Lots of barriers to hide behind. It looked like a war zone. It smelled like rotten meat.

There had been no sign of Le Fils—nor of Jehanne—and the irritation and impatience of the others was palpable. Izzy knew they were blaming her for taking them in the wrong direction.

After a few more steps she felt the sickening sensation of cold, wet cloth sliding across the nape of her neck. Someone was searching for her. May have found her.

Jean-Marc, she sent out mentally. Do you feel it, too?

He didn’t answer. She didn’t know if he had heard her. She reached upward to tap his shoulder. Before she could touch him, he nodded.

“Party time,” he whispered, reaching down to his thigh to rip open his cargo pocket, making it easier to grab his supplies.

On Izzy’s other side, Alain did the same. He signaled to Sange, who was walking on his right. Sange nodded and turned to her band. She made gestures that they seemed to understand and they gestured back. It was an elaborate code.

Of course. For when they hunt. Izzy was completely creeped out.

She took another step.

Above you! the voice bellowed in her mind. They’re going to pounce!

Izzy shouted, “Overhead!” whipping out her Medusa and firing straight up.

Shrieks split the air and something crashed to the ground. It was a vampire in street clothes, one of the enemy. His hair was ablaze; the fire raced over his face and then up his arms as Izzy aimed her machine gun at him and fired three quick bursts at him. He wouldn’t be able to move, and the fire would consume him.

He is not a person. He is not a human being.

“Hostie, Isabelle,” Jean-Marc shouted, clearly astonished, as he aimed his submachine gun upward and blasted the ceiling. He let the gun flop against his chest as he created twin fireballs and flung them hard.

Enemy vampires dropped like aerial bombs, their dead weight crushing at least two of Izzy’s team against the floor. As she watched, Maurice rolled from underneath a fallen adversary, pulled an enormous, wicked knife from a sheath on his calf and hacked at the vampire’s neck.

“Go, go, go!” Maurice shouted, as Jean-Marc grabbed Izzy by the forearm and threw her behind himself. Then he spread his legs wide and fired his weapon.

Sange and her vampires surged forward, meeting the enemy with Uzi spray as the enemy vampires found their footing and rushed them. A swarm of minions drove straight down, twelve o’clock high, and Izzy concentrated on her shooting: bam-bam-bam, rest; bam-bam-bam.

Izzy grabbed a grenade out of her pocket, grabbed the pin with her teeth, and lobbed it as hard as she could at the fleet of minions hurtling toward her. The grenade detonated, showering them with holy water.

Sange’s vampires shrieked in protest and darted out of the way.

Izzy continued to spray the ceiling as she stepped foot-over-foot toward the large piles of junk. A vampire leaped up from behind a turned-over refrigerator and flung a knife at her. Izzy fell to a crouch and the knife spun on over her head like a top. She cried out, “Jean-Marc, Alain, duck!”

Bam-bam-bam, rest.

Jean-Marc and Alain foxholed on either side of her. The Devereaux cousins’ palms spewed fire; the vampire ignited with a shriek.

More vampires appeared among the junk piles, white faces glaring, weapons blazing. Jean-Marc stood in front of Izzy. Alain shielded her from behind.

Up and to the left, Maurice lobbed a holy water grenade over a turned-over refrigerator. It exploded, and screaming vampires popped up, clawing at their blistering faces.

Bam-bam-bam, rest. Adrenaline surged through her body, igniting her reflexes. Power and energy shot like a powder trail up her spine. She looked down at herself. The white light surrounding her was at least a foot wide, and it was gleaming like fiery platinum. The fire-shaped scar on her palm blazed. Tucked between her breasts with her crucifix, the ring of the Bouvards burned into her flesh. She knew it was branding her, and she let it happen.

I was right, she thought fiercely, enduring the pain. I had to do this.

Jean-Marc grabbed her shoulder and shouted in her ear, “Let’s go!”

He meant that he wanted her to retreat. She shrugged him off and said, “No!” She needed more.

Before he could stop her, she joined a mixed force of operatives and vampires dashing toward the burned-out car. She felt a little crazy, as if she were on some kind of drug. Her hair streamed behind her like a banner and she held her Medusa up like a sword.

Everything sped up—her body, her reflexes—and she kept up handily with Maurice, who was leading the assault.

A vampire charged her; she stopped, planted her legs, set her elbows into a tripod and shot its head off.

Jean-Marc caught up with her again, yelling, “Back off! Back off! Vas-toi!” In the heat of battle, his English fractured into French.

She just looked at him and ran ahead with Maurice, Georges, and some others. Le Fils’s vampires were swarming, heading for them.

The two sides clashed, going hand-to-hand. Maurice slashed at his opponent with his knife as Georges lobbed a fireball. The vampire shrieked and fell back. Maurice pursued it.

With her own light and the light from the fires and explosions, Izzy could see perfectly. A quick survey, and she knew Le Fils was not among the attackers.

She spotted an immense haystack-shaped pile of rubble pushed up against the tunnel wall. She took it like a hill in a battle, racing up the side and giving a rebel yell.

Her brilliant aura grew to two feet, then three. Jean-Marc spared one astonished look at her before they both got down to business, fending off four enemy vampires as they crested the trash heap. Izzy knew that the shots from her machine gun were not fatal, but killing was not her objective. Finding Le Fils was.

Then a barrage of ammo rained down from the ceiling. Izzy ducked the bullets; she didn’t know how she managed to come out of the encounter unscathed. Jean-Marc grabbed her and tried to force her back down the way she had come while Sange’s vampires and Bouvard ops flew past them.

“Let me go!” she shouted. “I’m doing fine!”

He clasped his hand around her forearm and started dragging her down. “This is not a game!” he shouted at her. “We are not playing war. You can really die.”

“Look at me!” she yelled back, batting at him. “Look at my Gift!”

“You can still die!”

She saw ops staring openmouthed at her as they passed. Vampire friendlies grinned and whooped.

Then a triumphant cry rose up on the other side of the junk heap. Izzy jerked her arm; Jean-Marc let her go, and they both turned around and headed back in the opposite direction.

From their vantage point, they saw Le Fils facedown on the ground, spread-eagle, his long white hair coated with filth and blood. He raised his head and stared straight at Izzy with his deep-red eyes.

She felt a chill down to the tips of her toes.

The special ops formed a circle, digging into their pockets and flinging crosses and garlic at the king vampire, who heaved and clawed the concrete floor of the tunnel, leaving trails of blood from his fingers. Alain trained his submachine gun on Le Fils as he roared in agony.

As she sauntered toward the circle, Sange said, “You’ll have to pick those things back up, if you would, so I can saw his head off with my nail file.”

At the sound of her voice, Le Fils looked up at her. His red eyes widened, as if he couldn’t believe his predicament. Sange walked the perimeter of the security circle, her arms folded, as she said to Le Fils, “What are you up to now, you bâtard? Tell us, or I’ll send your soul straight to hell!”

Two Devereaux ops were lugging a wooden box, which they set down in front of Izzy and Jean-Marc. Izzy’s white light faded, but she still felt as strong and powerful; she wondered if it was simply invisible. She saw that the box was loaded with large, leather-bound books.

Joining them, Alain plucked the topmost volume from the box. “Voudon and the Other Dimensions,” he read aloud. “Portals and Doors. The Conduit.”

“Get these things off of me,” Le Fils snapped at Izzy, as he strained to get away from the crucifixes and garlic. “I can’t think straight.”

“Who are you serving?” Jean-Marc demanded. “Tell me now or your corpse will tell me when your mouth is packed with garlic.” He pulled a Baggie full of garlic cloves from the cargo pocket on his thigh.

Le Fils’s face was gray and blotchy. Blood beaded on his forehead.

There was a long silence. Then Izzy stepped forward and bent down on one knee, gathering up some of the crosses and plucking garlic off the bleeding vampire. The skin on his face and hands had broken out in horrible sores.

“Tell me,” she whispered to him. “I will make them save your soul.”

She didn’t know if she was lying.

With shaking fingers, she picked more pieces of garlic off his damaged body. She said to Le Fils, in the same insinuating tone Michel had used on Esposito, “Just tell us, and the pain will stop.”

“Bon,” he said finally, his voice so soft that Izzy had to turn her head to hear him. “I have a master. These books are for him.”

Sange scoffed. “The day you have a master is the day I walk in the sunlight.”

Le Fils looked at Sange full-on, his face a mixture of loathing, hatred and intense pride. He raised his chin. His blood-red eyes blazed. “My master is Aristide, lord of all vampires.”

Sange gasped and covered her mouth with both her hands. The vampires gathered behind her, cowering as if from the very name. “He’s a myth,” Sange whispered. “He doesn’t exist.”

Jean-Marc planted his feet wide apart and took aim. “Now is not the time for games,” he said. “Tell us the real name, or I’ll blow off your head.”

Le Fils chuckled, low, deep, evil. “That’s all I will say. It’s enough.”

“It’s not,” Jean-Marc said. He stepped forward and scooped up a handful of garlic. Then he crouched behind Le Fils, grabbed his upper jaw, and began cramming garlic into his mouth.

Blood flowed freely out of his mouth as Le Fils shrieked and struggled, pooling on the dirty concrete. Revolted, Izzy forced herself not to turn away. She was complicit, and her silence was her approval of Jean-Marc’s interrogation technique.

“This is stupid. You are stupid, Le Fils du Diable,” Sange said. “This is a ghost story you’ve made up to frighten us and take the blame off yourself. There is no such thing as Aristide.”

“Oh, there is, mon amour,” Le Fils gurgled through the blood. “And I’ve told him all about you. He can’t wait to meet you.”

Sange rushed up and began kicking the suffering vampire. “You’re a liar! You liar!” she shrieked. “He’s not real!”

“Yes, he is,” Le Fils said. Heaving in pain, he closed his eyes. After a succession of convulsions, he became deathly still, like a cobra.

Sange shouted, “He’s contacting him!”

She grabbed Izzy’s Medusa out of her hand, aimed, and shot Le Fils in the head.

She kept shooting.

 

“Aristide is a Gifted vampire,” Jean-Marc explained as he drove Izzy back to the mansion in a sleek black Jag. She didn’t know where it had come from, and she didn’t ask. They had taken off their body armor and stowed it in the trunk. Her muscles were trembling with exhaustion, and emotionally she was manic: euphoric, shot through with a sizzling livewire of fear. They had killed the little fish.

She knew now that Aristide was the gator.

The shark-shaped vehicle swam through the rain. In lieu of holding on to the steering wheel, Jean-Marc moved his hands to guide the car. Streetlights and the pastel rainbows of neon signs played over his sharp features, and she watched him for signs of a relapse. He had fought hard, again, after rising from his sickbed, again.

“How can he be both?” she asked. “I thought there were Gifted, like us, and supernaturals, like vampires. Two different things altogether.”

Jean-Marc said, “I’ll tell you the legend, although I must also tell you, I considered Aristide to be a myth, as well.”

“Okay.” She settled in to listen.

“In the fourteenth century, there was a nobleman in the French countryside, not far from Domremy, where your patronesse, Jehanne, was born. He was Le Baron Samson de Aristide, Maison des Mortes. That means of the House of the Dead. One story goes that the Baron was a leper, hence the name. But back then, rivals said such things to discount their enemies.”

“Someone gave him some bad press, in other words,” Izzy said.

“Oui. Or perhaps it was true. It was also asserted that he consorted with demons, and that he knowingly married a vampire. On their wedding night, she changed him.

“When he awoke to his undead life, he continued his work in the Black Arts. After thirteen years of performing rites and rituals to a demon of hell, he acquired his Gift, and that was when the real trouble began. His patron demanded sacrifices—living human sacrifices—and Aristide gave him hundreds. His reign of terror was unparalleled.”

“The Hitler of his times,” she said. “What is the name of his patron?”

“I don’t know. And if I did, I probably wouldn’t speak it aloud. Such names have terrible power.”

He motioned and the car downshifted, darting around a corner as the tires gripped the wet tarmac. Rain smacked the window with gray fists.

“The vampire baron transformed into a demon. He became a great lord of hell, promising his minions that he would give them this world in return for their loyalty. To that end, he created a conduit that would bring them through.

“Some say that our own Houses embraced magic in order to fight him. The House of the Flames, the Blood and the Shadows. I don’t know about that. It was during the French Civil War, and your House, the Bouvards, was clearly fighting on the side of Joan of Arc. Some say that Jehanne was the commander of us all. The story goes that there was another tremendous battle, our united Houses on one side and Aristide on the other, and the conduit was shattered. Aristide’s followers were trapped in hell, and he remained on earth alone. We vanquished his patron, and Aristide went underground, into hiding.”

“Those books Le Fils had were about portals and conduits,” Izzy said.

“Oui,” Jean-Marc replied. “Le Fils must have been helping Aristide rebuild the conduit. Assuming such a one exists.”

“In the convent?”

“One assumes.” Anxiety creased his forehead and etched deep lines around his mouth. “If I had known this, I wouldn’t have insisted you come back from New York. I am afraid. For you, and for all of us.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. She was afraid, too. But her Gift sang in her blood. “But I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing. If he wanted me to stay away, it’s because I pose a threat. That means I have power against him. And if I have power against him, then maybe I have it against his master.”

He looked upset. “Everything in me wants to deny that. I…” He pressed a hand against his forehead as he kept his eyes on the road. “If I hadn’t found you, Le Fils would have killed you. But I’m sorry I brought you into this.”

“You didn’t.” Moved, she extended her hand. “I can’t see my aura. Can you?”

He nodded, sliding a glance at her. “I can. It’s blazing as never before. You were right about the battle. It triggered a massive change in you.” He regarded her with great respect. “You’re definitely more powerful and more confident. More like a true guardienne.” He sounded sad.

It is not enough, said the voice.

The car sped along, guided by but not precisely driven by him. She was like the car now, moving under its own speed, with the occasional bit of guidance.

The rain pattered on the windshield. Neon slid across the glass. Lacy balconies floated in the darkness. She saw an illuminated sign for a voodoo shop, another for a ghost tour. Tourists were looking for dark excitement. She was living it. But like them, she was only scratching the surface. To survive, she would have to go deeper. Fully embrace the shadows.

“I need more power. To be able to receive my legacy, and to defeat Aristide.” She took a deep breath. “And you can give it to me.”

He understood.

“Yes. I can,” he said. His voice grew husky as he reached for her hand and squeezed it, then laid it over his large, hard erection. “And I will.”

J ean-Marc and Izzy held hands for the rest of the trip back to the mansion. She could feel his energy sizzling inside her hand, shooting through her blood like an electric shock to jolt her nervous system. Her heartbeat picked up and she tingled everywhere—her lips, the nape of her neck, her collarbone. Her lower abdomen. And then her breasts, her nipples and her sex. She was highly aroused. She assumed he was, too.

He said to her gently, “For Gifted, this is the highest form of magic. We don’t share it lightly.” He hesitated, as if he was unsure how to proceed with her. “But we do share it. And that is what it means for us, the creation of strong, powerful magic. It’s not the same as making love. Do you know what I’m telling you?”

She thought of the things men and women sometimes said to each other before they went to bed—no commitment, just physical—and she swallowed hard. Could she do this?

“It won’t be a betrayal of Pat,” he continued. “Be clear on that. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. I know how you feel about him, and I know how you feel about me.”

Do you? she thought.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “Even if you don’t.”

Grasping her forefinger, he slid it into his mouth. Sunburst tingles centered in her stomach, and she gasped.

“Just a taste of things to come,” he murmured, as he licked her finger and put her hand back down over his erection. Then he spoke to her in French and Latin, weaving spells. She felt as if she were floating out of the seat; she saw herself beneath him in her bed at the mansion, having sex, he stroking her as she rocked against him. In her mind’s eye, she was delirious with lust, heaving and panting, clinging to him. She was an animal.

“I’ll know what you want,” Jean-Marc said beside her. The muscles in his thigh were taut beneath her hand. “I will make it everything I can.”

Word had gotten back to the mansion that Le Fils was dead. Despite the rain, every window in the mansion gleamed, and Bouvards lined the drive of live oaks, cheering and waving the banners of the House of the Flames: the face of Joan of Arc encircled by flames. They were tossing lilies onto the road and waving at Izzy as the Jag blew by. Devereaux and Bouvard operatives were out in full force, facing the crowds.

As the Jag glided to a halt, guards surrounded the vehicle.

“Let them see your power,” Jean-Marc said, as one of the Bouvard operatives bent down and opened her door. Jean-Marc snapped his fingers, and her aura shimmered like a kaleidoscope around her body. She had pulled the rose quartz necklace out over her black T-shirt and the ring shone with its own white light. The onlookers went wild, their voices welling with excitement and relief. Shielding his eyes, the Bouvard operative took an involuntary step back, then caught himself and presented arms.

“Madame de Bouvard,” he announced squinting against her brilliance.

Izzy waved back at the throng as she and Jean-Marc were hustled to the side door, met there by Michel, Mirielle, the three Ungifted officials and the three assistants. Broussard and Jackson broke into applause. Gelineau joined in, somewhat more restrained.

Michel gaped at Izzy, then dropped to his left knee and said, “Forgive me, madame. I lacked faith, and I ask your apology.”

“It’s all right,” she said. She looked from him to Gelineau. “The politesse,” she said. “We’re staying in New Orleans, yes?”

He looked ashen. He thought I would fail, she thought. He’s in this. Who bought him, Le Fils? Does he even know about Aristide? What about the Malchances?

“Of course you’re staying,” Gelineau managed, trying to sound jovial. “We can’t thank you enough. I can see now that the House of the Flames is going to rise again.”

“Oui,” Izzy said. “It is.”

Jean-Marc took her arm and said, “We’ll debrief later, Monsieur Gelineau. Madame needs to be with her mother now.”

“I’d really like to hear what happened,” Gelineau pushed. “Maybe just a quick meeting?” He looked to Broussard and Jackson for their votes.

“Later,” Jean-Marc said firmly, circumventing any shot at democracy. He looked at Michel. “Perhaps a celebration is in order? Madame will join you when she can.”

“Of course.” Michel looked relieved to have a job to do. Actually, he looked relieved to have a job. But all of that mattered only peripherally to Izzy. Willingly under Jean-Marc’s spell, she was languid and amorous, her body hungry for his.

“Now,” Jean-Marc said, gazing at her. She wondered if the others knew what was about to happen.

She expected that they would go to her bedroom, but to her surprise, he ordered a heavy guard to escort them to the covening chamber. She stood aside as he conducted an elaborate ritual to open the stone entry door, which turned to crystal at his touch. In the center of the darkened chamber, her mother lay in her gilt bed, domed in blue light.

Izzy could barely see her profile, but she looked sunken and fragile. “Ma mére,” she said, leaning over her, “please wait. I’m almost ready.”

Then she kissed Marianne on the lips. They seemed thinner, and Izzy felt a rush of grief, pushing away her sexual excitement. It occurred to her that if she didn’t sleep with Jean-Marc, maybe her mother would never die.

But she knew that would be wrong. It was time to take up the banner.

Jean-Marc conferred with the doctor and spoke to Annette. He brought in the ops teams and left them there.

Then Jean-Marc laced his fingers through hers and walked her through the chamber. Never having been inside, she glanced at the shadowed walls, seeing flame decorations there, and large panels of crystal. Her grief was still overpowering her, and she wondered if she would be able to go through with this after all.

Then he motioned with his hand and a door appeared on the other side of the chamber. It opened and he went through first, pulling her gently across the threshold. The room wafted with lavender-scented mist, and she couldn’t see him. She could only see a blaze of blue light beside her.

Her clothes slid to the floor. She was barefoot. The signet ring dangled from the rose quartz necklace around her neck, a circle of warmth between her breasts.

Through the mist he said, “First, we must clean off the magical residue. That’s part of the reason you’re feeling so much sorrow.”

How do you know what I’m feeling? she thought.

“You know how I know,” he said aloud. He took her hand and squeezed it hard. “Don’t be afraid. Let all the negative emotions go. I promise you pleasure you’ve never known before.”

The mist descended to the floor and trailed away, to reveal a lagoon of crystalline water tumbling from a waterfall. Lazy palms drooped from white sand, shading purple orchids and cawing red and green parrots from the golden sun. The warm sand tickled her toes; the heady fragrance of a hundred tropical flowers filled her senses.

Jean-Marc stood facing her, and he was naked, too. A large white scar zigzagged through the dark hair on his chest, but other than that, he was perfect. He was powerfully built, his chest wide, with six-pack abs and the long, lean arms and legs she had already admired when they trained together. His hips were narrow, and his erect penis bobbed from the nest of curly black hair between his legs.

Without a word, gazing into her eyes, he picked her up, one large, muscular hand looped around her hip, another under her arm, lazily caressing the curve of her breast. He smelled of musk and sweat. Then he turned and walked straight into the water. It caressed his calves and then his knees, up to his thighs and to his chest. He lowered her into the water, bending his knees so that he sank with her. The bottom of the lagoon disappeared; rose-scented water closed over her head, and she felt tremendous relief as the magical residue washed away.

Jean-Marc put his mouth over hers. He slid his tongue inside and wrapped his hands around her body, pulling her against him, hard. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. She heard the heartbeat…hers, his? It was like the rhythm of ocean waves. He breathed inside her, breathed for her.

She clung to him as he propelled them both back up to the surface of the water. Then she opened her eyes to gaze into his…and saw that they had left the water; they were soaring high above the lagoon, across a tropical night sky glittering with stars and heavy with perfume.

His hair had come loose from his ponytail and streamed behind him. He looked like a warrior angel. He turned her around, his hands around her waist and chest, spooning her as they flew. She felt his penis pressing against her ass. His hands covered her breasts, centering her nipples in his palms.

She and he descended a mountaintop bursting with flowers—orchids, plumeria, wisteria and irises. A bower of fragrant blossoms draped tree limbs, opulent masses twining around trunks and spreading over the grassy earth. They landed gently in a soft pile of flower petals. He leaned over to a small woven mat and picked up two wineglasses, and handed one to her. They both drank deeply, she sighing with pleasure. She remembered the first glass of wine he had ever offered her. She had refused it.

And I was right to do it. But now…this cup is mine.

He took her glass away and put his hands beneath her head, cradling her, as he lowered her down onto the petals. With his eyes boring into hers, he kissed her slowly, deeply, completely.

“Ah, Isabelle, ma belle, ma femme,” he murmured, covering her face with kisses. His warm lips dotted her neck and shoulders, and her breasts and her stomach.

And then he slid into her. She gasped and clasped his biceps, arching to meet him.

They moved together, rhythms meshing, heart to heart. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, squeezed her fist.

Then, still inside her, he gently rolled her onto her side. She felt her body shifting, changing; she looked down and saw fur, and claws.

She was a lioness.

A leopard.

An eagle.

Morphing and changing, shifting, making love in all the glamours and guises he conjured.

In deserts and jungles and under the ocean and among the stars. For hours—or was it centuries? He, hard inside her, moving and changing as she moved and changed.

Then they left bodies behind and became beings of light. He was a glowing figure of soft blue and she was pure white. She felt his colors and heard unbelievably beautiful music—the symphony of their union.

His climax was a comet; hers, a shower of stars. Tears ran down her cheeks as she collapsed into his arms, his very human arms.

And at the last, as she opened her eyes, Pat’s eyes looked back at her. Pat’s mouth smiled at her. In Pat’s voice, Jean-Marc said steadily, “You have not betrayed me. You have made it possible to save me.”

“I know.” Another tear ran down her cheek. “But they told me I can’t have you.”

“Still, I’m yours,” Jean-Marc replied.

In his own voice.

His very own.

 

Hustle it up. You’re on point.

The voice murmured against Izzy’s earlobe as she stood in the center of the suspension bridge that spanned the bayou. The water below churned with blood. On the side of the bridge that she’d just left, Pat stood beside her father, Big Vince, who was wearing his NYPD uniform, and Gino, who was dressed in the robes of a Catholic priest. Tanned and sexy, boot-cut jeans molded to his quads and ass above low-heeled cowboy boots, and a chambray shirt stretched across his pecs. There was something in his fist; he turned his hand over and fanned his fingers, revealing a diamond engagement ring. Gino and Big Vince beamed at her, and Gino made the sign of the cross over her.

She took a step toward the trio of men she loved more than anything in this world. Low in her belly, she felt the quickening of life. A child. Pat’s child.

She took another step toward them.

The scar-faced fabricant that had tried to kill her appeared behind them. Taller even than Pat, it smiled at her and bent its knees slightly, beckoning her to come back, nodding eagerly as she took a third step. It put its arm around Pat like a brother and gave him a squeeze.

Then it reached around Pat’s head, one hand on either side, twisted hard, and snapped his neck. As it tossed Pat’s body over the side of the bridge, a greenish-brown alligator at least twenty feet long breached the bloody water and snapped open its enormous jaws. Pat’s body tumbled in, and the gator slammed its jaws shut and sank beneath the surface.

Izzy screamed, but no sound came out. Her long legs heaved over the side of the bridge and she dove toward the water.

Gino. Big Vince.

At the last possible moment, she grabbed the bottom of knots of the suspension bridge and held on, whipping backward, pulling her knees to her chest.

The gator leaped, clacking its rivers of teeth at her. She felt the compression of air and smelled Pat’s death on its fetid breath.

Then in the way of dreams, she was back on the bridge.

But where the fabricant had menaced Gino and Big Vince, Jean-Marc and Alain now stood, wearing dark-blue magician’s robes spangled with silver doves. In place of the fabricant, the ghostly figure she had seen with Georges and Maurice wafted into the cypress trees and hung there like a kite.

Heat ruffled her back. The other side of the bridge—the side she had been going to—burned in slow-motion flames that undulated in colors: white, blue, red. The fire crackled and spit; the flames roared like beasts. They were waiting to devour her.

They were the gator.

Above her in the sky, the figure said, Allez. Vite. Or it will all be for nothing. Look to your gun.

In the flames, her Medusa hung like the Holy Grail, twisting and shining.

And without a moment’s hesitation, Izzy turned and ran straight into the fire.

 

With a gasp, Izzy woke.

She lay cradled in Jean-Marc’s arms, her head on his shoulder, his other arm wrapped around her. Her stomach muscles hurt and she smelled the yeasty scent of sex mingling with the fragrance of the tropics. Above them, a canopy of stars and palms twinkled and swayed.

Tell him goodbye, said the voice.

Jean-Marc stirred in his sleep. She felt his erection against her thigh. He shifted again, moaning softly without waking up. His arms tightened around her.

He and his cousin have to go. The Kiss of Fire will not happen until you are alone. He must return to his own House. He is not a son of the Flames.

Izzy gave her head a quick shake. There was no way she could do that. Not now.

Twisting in his embrace, she turned to face him, to see his dark eyes open. His mouth was pulled down, and he looked troubled.

“I won’t leave you,” he said. He turned her onto her side and entered her from behind. Izzy’s eyes rolled back in her head as the pleasure carried her along. She climaxed, hard, and he came after her, gasping and clinging to her.

She felt a rush of power. She felt as if she were on fire.

He has to go.

“I hear it,” he said. He shook his head. “I won’t do it.”

“Jean-Marc.” She could feel how strong she was now. It was indescribable, energy thrumming through her like the engine of a powerful jet. She and Jean-Marc had created vast power through sex magic. The flame-shaped brand in her palm was pulsing.

The voice was right. She knew in the depths of her soul that he must leave, or the transfer of power wouldn’t happen. She didn’t know if her mother was deliberately withholding it, or if Jehanne was in control of its disbursement, but the message was clear.

“Aristide,” Jean-Marc argued, gritting his teeth. His dark eyes flashed as he scowled, not at her, but at what was being demanded of him. “There is absolutely no way I am abandoning you, with him at large in New Orleans.”

Incredibly, he was hard again. He flipped her over on her back and took her. He was dominating her, or trying to. He wanted her to acquiesce, to tell him to stay. She rode the pleasure, amassing the power, and told him goodbye.

When it was over, and they were both spent for the third time, she trailed her fingertips down the side of his face and said, “Jean-Marc, you’ve always done what you had to do. You served my House as regent even though you were hated, and people tried to kill you. Then you searched for me, and you brought me here, even though you felt sorry for me and you didn’t want to do it. And now…you have to let go.”

“I…can’t,” he whispered, wrapping his hand around her fingers. “I won’t. I will not.” He began to speak in French. She couldn’t follow. But she knew the presence of Aristide had crumbled his resolve.

And maybe it had been more than sex magic for him, too.

The tropical paradise disappeared. They were lying naked on the floor in the center of an octagonal room dominated by white-marble rectangles, each topped with the figure of a recumbent woman in full armor, a sword gripped in her gauntleted fists. Effigies, she realized. Sarcophagi. The walls were elaborate mosaics of flames, the floor, as well, dominated by the now-familiar face of Jehanne, which was repeated in the cathedral ceiling overhead. Torches shaped like swords were lit, giving off smoky light.

“This is our crypt,” she whispered, getting to her feet. “You made love with me here?”

“It is the holiest place in the New World for your family,” he said, rising beside her. “I performed sex magic with you. What we did was holy.”

What we did was holy, but we did not make love, she reminded herself.

She counted eleven sarcophagi. When her mother died, there would be twelve. If she were laid to rest here, she would be the thirteenth.

He snapped his fingers, and two robes appeared at their feet. One was white, like the one she had put on to read Esposito’s remains with D’Artagnon and Michel. One was midnight blue, covered with tiny silver doves. She had seen Jean-Marc wearing it in her dream. She didn’t want him to put it on, but she said nothing as he made motions and the two robes rose into the air, then settled over their heads. Soft ballet slippers covered her feet. He put on his hood; she did the same.

“We’ll invoke your patronesse,” he said, “and ask her to allow the transfer in my presence. I am your regent,” he reminded her before she had a chance to speak. “I should be there.”

Tell him no.

“We can’t. We shouldn’t,” she told him. “I already know the answer.”

He raised his sharp chin. His dark hair grazed his jawline, falling back slightly to reveal the dove earring he wore. The pulse in his neck was fast and angry. He was poised for a fight.

“Then I’ll defy her,” he said. “This is wrong.” He stepped forward and spread his arms open. “Jehanne,” he said in a loud, ringing voice, slowly turning his face toward the arched ceiling. “Je vous pidez. Attendez-moi, Patronesse de la Maison des Flammes. Je voudrais parler avec vous.”

The room went black. A cold wind whistled through it, penetrating Izzy’s robe, and flapping at the hem. A crackle of lightning zigzagged overhead. A second crackled against the floor, revealing the figures on the sarcophagi—standing atop the marble lids with their swords drawn, marble blades pointed at Jean-Marc. A third flash showed them lying flat again, swords beneath peaceful, clasped hands.

“Oh, my God, what’s happening?” she cried.

The wind became a gale, threatening to knock her off her feet; she dropped down beside one of the sarcophagi, using it as a wind shield, drawing herself up into a ball and covering her head in a protective gesture.

“Jean-Marc!” she shouted. “Where are you?”

The wind blew harder; the stone coffin she nestled beside actually moved.

Then someone else bellowed, “Jean-Marc!” and the wind and lightning vanished immediately, as if a switch had been thrown. The room was cast in shadow.

“Jean-Marc.” It was Alain, standing in the doorway to the crypt, a ball of light glowing above his outstretched palm. He was still wearing his battle gear. His Uzi was around his neck as he rushed into the room.

Jean-Marc was standing on the other side of the room, his face shadowed. His shoulders were slumped, his head slightly bowed.

“I know,” he said to Alain. His voice was low, hoarse and defeated. And yet there was a hard edge to it that raised the hair on the back of Izzy’s neck. She remembered her first rule: Never piss off Jean-Marc.

“I am sorry,” Alain replied. “So very sorry.”

“What are you talking about? What’s happened?” Izzy asked in a shrill voice.

Alain crossed the room and knelt before Jean-Marc. His glowing sphere cast an upward glow on Jean-Marc’s face, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks and hiding his eyes, giving him a demonic appearance.

Alain took Jean-Marc’s hand in his and inclined his head. “Mon Guardien,” he said.

Jean-Marc placed his hand on the crown of Alain’s head and growled, “Not yet.” Then he gazed at Izzy. “My father just died,” he told her. He was shaking. “I have to leave immediately for Montreal.”

 

Did you do it? Izzy asked the blank-faced statue of Jehanne, which had been placed beside Marianne’s bed in the convening chamber. Did you kill Jean-Marc’s father to make him leave?

Beside the gilt bed, Le Fils’s cache of stolen books was heaped on a satin Louis XIV chair. A retinue of Femmes Blanches sat on either side of the chamber, keeping vigil as they had for twenty-six years. Their veiled heads followed Izzy as she walked to the doorway.

Jean-Marc stood before her, his black hair wild and free, his elegantly tailored suit stretching across his shoulders. Wan and disbelieving beside him, Alain politely waited.

Jean-Marc gazed at Izzy. She couldn’t read his expression, but she knew emotions were at war inside him. He had tamped them down. He was like that. He could do that. When she had first met him, she thought he was unbelievably cold-blooded and emotionless. He had told her that duty ruled his life. What was best for his House first, and then what he must do to fulfill his duty to her House as regent.

His allegiance had been tested, and he had failed and he had paid.

For her sake.

“Call me,” she told him. “Tell me what’s happening. Stay in touch with me.”

“Don’t worry,” he said curtly. “I’ll be in constant contact.” He gestured to the cell phone he’d given her. It was magically boosted to accept a signal from him, no matter where he was. He’d also included Pat’s number, as well. As far as she could tell, he felt no jealousy toward Pat. The world of the Gifted was very different. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I, as well,” Alain said, moving forward and putting his arms around her. “One assumes that the Kiss of Fire will happen soon, Blanche Neige. You will be very powerful. And as soon as we’ve settled things in Montreal, we’ll come. You won’t face Aristide alone.”

“Merci bien,” she said, shutting her eyes tightly as Alain held her. She wanted Jean-Marc to do the same, but he’d removed himself emotionally. She understood that he needed the distance. Maybe she did, too.

Then Alain took a step away from her and said, “Present arms.”

The full contingent of Devereaux special ops clacked to attention on the other side of the door. She heard them. She knew Georges and Maurice were going with them.

Jean-Marc locked gazes with her.

This is not the end, he promised. Je reviens. I will return.

She swallowed, steeling herself for the moment when he would turn his back and walk out the chamber door.

It came all too soon.

L ess than an hour after Jean-Marc left, Sange dropped a bomb. She was leaving town with her sirelings—removing a potent source of protection from the House of the Flames’s needy arsenal.

“You can see why I’m leaving,” she said. She wore her hooded cape and strands of diamonds were wrapped around her white neck. Her fangs glittered; everything about her seemed brittle and uncaring.

“I can see that you’re afraid,” Izzy said. I am, too.

“Jean-Marc is gone, and if Aristide is truly in New Orleans…” She moved her shoulders. “My sirelings depend on me for protection, just as the Bouvards depend on…you.”

“Jean-Marc will be back soon,” Izzy said. “There will be a ceremony to make him guardien and then he’ll be back.”

“He may not be the next guardien of the House of the Shadows,” Sange retorted, giving her head a toss. “They vote. The new guardien may order him to stay there.”

Deep in the back of her mind, Izzy had known that. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“If he comes back, I’ll consider returning as well,” Sange said grandly. “But for now, it’s too dangerous. So.”

She cupped Izzy’s chin with her icy hand. “This is a shitty deal for you. I feel for you, and I wish I could be of more help. But protectors have tough decisions, eh? And my loyalty lies with my own kind.”

“Got it,” Izzy said tersely.

Sange turned to Izzy’s mother. “Adieu, Marianne,” she said.

Then she turned and swept out of the chamber.

I’m truly alone here, Izzy thought, reeling. There is no one here I can depend on. Except myself.

The Femmes Blanches stirred in their chairs.

We’re here for you, chére.

Call on us.

 

She allowed one more visitor before she locked herself in with her mother: Andre flew into a rage and began to transform when she told him that Jean-Marc and all the Devereauxes had left, and Sange as well. Not feeling calm at all herself, she managed to soothe him and halted the process, but he paced like an animal in the chamber, furious.

She could also tell that he was frightened.

“We’ll watch the mansion, chére,” he promised her. “We’ve called on all our bokor friends to give us good mojo. I can’t lie to you, jolie maîtresse. If it is really Aristide, that is bad news.”

After he left, she asked Michel and Mirielle to come into the chamber with her. Annette was there, as well, fidgety and anxious. Izzy let her be. They were on a death watch.

Jean-Marc called to report that they had landed safely. He was in a limo on his way to the family headquarters. When she told him about Sange, he ordered the driver to turn around take them back to the plane. Apparently Alain countermanded his order, and then he took the phone from his cousin.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Alain promised. “Stay in the mansion. Wait for the Kiss of Fire.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice.

And then she called Pat’s cell phone.

“Yeah.” He answered on the first ring.

“Me.”

“Jesus,” he said, “where the hell have you been? I’ve been tearing New York apart looking for you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You’re sorry?”

Her easy-going Texan was MIA. A testosterone-rich protector had taken over his body.

“Pat, I’m okay.”

“Hell you are. Give my your location. I’m catching a plane.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Not in my vocabulary. Tell me where you are or I will climb through this fucking phone now.”

She thought of the vision of the bridge. His ring. His baby. She closed her eyes. The vision was clear: she couldn’t have those things, and if she tried to, he would die—just as Jean-Marc’s father had died.

“Remember Le Fils. Remember what he said. Stay in New York, Pat. You’re my first line of defense for Big Vince and Gino.” And you have to stay safe. You have to.

“Damn it, Isabella,” he bit off. He had never called her by her given name before. “I am not your damn lapdog. Whatever’s going on, it’s not going to happen without me there.”

Then Captain Clancy was on the line. She said, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep him here.”

“Make him stay,” Izzy pleaded. “Even if you have to shoot him.” She caught her breath. “That’s a joke.” A very bad one.

“Don’t go anywhere, unless it’s on a plane back here.” That was Pat again.

And then the line went dead.

 

Then there were no more calls. No more visitors. Izzy sat in the chair, watching her mother, worrying about Pat and trying to read one of the books they had captured from Le Fils. It was called The Conduit. It talked about certain places in the world where magic vibrations created vortexes, doors to other planes of existence. It was like her warded bedroom door—with the right spells, those doors were shut tight as drums. With other spells, they were opened.

“And those who dwell on other planes of existence will have the ability to enter,” she read. “In the case of benign beings, this is much to be desired. But in the case of dark creatures such as devils and demons, it is imperative that such conduits remain sealed for time and all eternity.”

 

Across the chamber, the gray-headed Mirielle was insisting sotto voce, “It’s not going to happen. She’s not the Daughter of the Flames. The patronesse cannot be fooled.”

Michel said tiredly, “Have some discretion. This is a solemn occasion.”

“This should take place in the great hall, with all the Bouvards present,” Mirielle hissed. “Then, if she’s the wrong one, the Kiss of Fire will reach the correct one.”

“We’ve already discussed that,” Michel whispered. “It’s too risky. The chance of an assassination attempt is too great.”

“If she can be killed like that, then she must not be the next guardienne. The patronesse would protect her.”

“If she’s not the next guardienne, surely the patronesse will find a way to transfer the power to the proper recipient,” Michel shot back, although Izzy knew he believed she was the proper candidate.

“Exactement,” Mirielle retorted. “So we should forget this nonsense and go upstairs.”

Izzy threw down the book and jumped to her feet. She was quivering with anger. Tears spilled from her eyes as she glared at them both and said, “Do you mind? My mother is dying.”

Michel bowed his head. “M’excusez,” he said. “Tempers are short. Emotions are high.”

“If you two can’t stop arguing about where Marianne should die, I’ll have you both escorted out of here.” Rays of light radiated from her palm and the ring that hung around her neck. Michel saw it, and nodded. But Mirielle huffed and simply shielded her eyes, as if the telltale shining was an everyday nuisance.

Izzy had a feeling this was but a taste of what was to come, once she had assumed command as the head of the household. Factional politics, jealousies, rivalries. Attempts on her life.

Kind of like being a police officer after all.

 

“It could happen anytime,” the doctor told Izzy. She had no idea how long it had already been. She was exhausted. She had tried to read the book, but her gaze kept drifting to her mother.

Hours dragged by. Jean-Marc checked in to tell her that the Devereaux Grand Council had convened to vote on the next guardien. His father lay in state in their chapel, soon to be interred in a crypt, he told her, much like that of the Flames.

“I am so sorry,” she said, hearing the heaviness in his voice. She had never asked him about his mother, and she decided against it for now.

“And I, too, for you. You never got to know your mother.” He paused a moment. “Isabelle, there is something you need to know, and I have never found a good time to tell you. But Annette is in there with you, oui?”

“Yes.” Now what? What other bombs can he possibly drop?

Izzy ticked her glance over at Annette, who was sitting quietly with the Femmes Blanches, weeping. Feeling Izzy’s eyes on her, she looked up and paled.

“She has been keeping a secret, and it’s been weighing heavily on her. When you acquire more power, she probably won’t be able to conceal it from you any longer. So let me tell you now.

“Sauvage…she wasn’t what she seemed. She was part of the plot to assassinate you that night.”

“What?” Izzy’s cheeks stung as if she’d been slapped.

“Oui. She went through the motions of the glamour to help Louise get you out of the mansion. I found out. And…I took her out, Isabelle.”

Silence froze the moment. Izzy couldn’t begin to comprehend what he was saying. Her stomach heaved. The room wobbled. “You…killed her?”

“I had to. She allowed me to recruit her so she could work for Le Fils. After you killed Esposito, she was afraid you would find out. So she wanted you dead. She wanted us both dead.”

“No,” Izzy protested, covering her mouth. Her world was shifting, turning.

Ending.

“It was quick, Isabelle. She didn’t even feel a thing. Annette knows. It has been a terrible burden for her, but I demanded that she keep it from you. I didn’t want you to hear it from her. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

Annette rose and minced toward her. Izzy pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. “No. I can’t believe it. Oh, my God.” Tears streamed down her face.

“Je regret,” Jean-Marc told her.

“Ruthven,” she rasped out. “Please.” She realized she was begging for his life, as if she could go back in time and stop Jean-Marc from killing him. If indeed he had. Don’t let it have happened. Don’t.

Jean-Marc said, “An innocent. I sent him ahead of me to Montreal in my family plane. He’s here. He’s safe.”

He must be terrified, Izzy thought.

“When things are…calmer, he can leave if he wants. But for now, he needs to stay here.”

“How is he?”

“Afraid,” Jean-Marc replied. “I’m needed here. I’ll call again.”

As Izzy hung up the phone, Annette knelt before her, looking up at her with puffy eyes. Izzy was crying, too, and she reached out her hands to Annette and pulled her to her feet.

“I wanted so badly to tell you,” Annette said. “I almost did, that first morning at the mansion in the bayou.”

They wept together, arms around each other. The Gifted world was filled with death—her mother, a young girl, a little boy’s parents. Izzy wanted no part of it. She was done.

As the two women cried, the Femmes Blanches snaked their way around them, centering them in a shifting line of Gifted feminine magic. The powerful heart of the House of the Flames descended from mother to daughter—from woman to woman—and these women, bound to the service of the guardienne for over a quarter of century, offered their hearts to Izzy.

Words came: I am a warrior. And I will not turn my back on the battlefield.

Like the steady drip of water on stone, the tears of Jehanne echoed through the centuries: Take this from me. Give it to me. Don’t make me do this. Allow me to do this. Take this cup. This cup is mine.

I am a warrior…

Izzy let the vision come:

 

There was no door to the tunnel. The white light blazed like a supernova as Izzy glided in, unhampered, welcome. Angels sang as the beautiful glowing figure held out her arms and enfolded Izzy in love so deep, so profound, so unlike anything Izzy had known in the darker world. Izzy laid her head on the shimmering chest and drank in the chant of her heartbeat.

The figure said, “You heard this song in my womb, ma belle, ma jeune fille. And now this heart breaks for you, because it’s time.”

“Non, Maman, ” Izzy whispered, wrapping her arms around the soul of her mother. “Don’t go.”

“I can no longer allow you to remain unprotected,” Marianne murmured, smoothing the hair away from Izzy’s forehead. “The power given to us by Jehanne must flow to you.”

Izzy grabbed her hand and laid her cheek against it. Tears spilled fast and hard onto the luminescent skin.

“Non. Come back with me. Come back to us. Your Family needs you. I need you. Oh, please, don’t leave me now. They have all left me.”

“You are a warrior, my darling. Strong, and powerful.” Marianne held her close and laid her cheek on Izzy’s head. “I am so proud of you, my dearest, sweetest daughter.”

“Maman, please…” Izzy clung to her. “Please, don’t go. Oh, please.”

Then Marianne pulled Izzy away from her and cupped her head. Izzy saw no features. She longed to see her face one last time. Just one.

“Listen to me, Isabelle. There is another one. You must take care. The Other is coming for you.”

“The gator?” Izzy asked. “Aristide?”

“Oui,” Marianne said. “The gator. But not Aristide. The Other. Which is why I must kiss you one last time. You cannot know how many kisses I showered upon you when you were born. This kiss is my last, ma petite.”

 

Izzy woke with a scream.

She was on fire. The smoke choked her as the flames danced along her arms and singed away her hair. Every part of her body shrieked in agony; every cell, every nerve, burned.

The Femmes Blanches were screaming, too, gathering around her, holding her, rushing for help—

 

In the Burning Times, women accused of witchcraft were often burned inside a tower of wood, so that the mob would not see how hideous a death it truly was. But Jehanne they displayed, so that the French would see what happened to those who opposed their new English masters.

Men wept; soldiers wept; the executioner, who lit the bonfire, sobbed and begged God himself for forgiveness. For who could watch such a young, innocent woman die so horribly, and not burn with shame and horror?

 

Izzy’s body convulsed; her muscles contracted. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She retched. She prayed to die, begged for it. This was unimaginable pain. This was beyond enduring.

“Help me!” she cried. “Someone help me!”

Her hair blazed; her skin singed. Blisters raised along her skin, bubbling. Then her skin burned away to reveal the blood boiling in her veins and her bones charring to ash.

Stop it! she begged. I’m dying!

And she was…to her old life. In her mind’s eye she was crossing the bridge, dashing headlong into the fire. Straight for it…Pat was shouting her name; her father was screaming; Gino wept.

I’m leaving them behind. I’m leaving my whole world. No, it’s too much. It hurts too much.

Directly into the fire as it blazed like a whirlwind around her, the heat blasting her into the sky like a shooting star, like a comet…

Jean-Marc, Jean-Marc help me!

He was there. He wore a magician’s robe and a crown over his long hair, and he stepped into the fire with her and protectively moved around her.

“I’m here. I will always be here,” he swore.

Then all at once, it was gone. Jean-Marc, and the fire and the pain…all gone.

And so was Marianne. As Izzy lay collapsed over her body, Marianne’s lips were full and lush, her dark brown eyes open and unfocused. But she was beautiful again, the lovely young Sleeping Beauty. Her mother.

Her mother.

“She has been kissed!” Annette cried. “The legacy has passed unbroken from mother to daughter!”

Izzy looked down at her own hand. Light strobed from her body, flashing, glistening, glittering. She felt unbelievable. Such energy, such strength…it was indescribable. It was beyond what she could have imagined.

All the Femmes Blanches were on their knees. Mirielle and Michel, the bodyguards and Annette, all bowed their heads. Cries and whispers ricocheted around the room.

“We’re here, jolie guardienne.”

“Vive La Guardienne Isabelle!”

With a sob, Izzy kissed Marianne’s cheek. Volts of energy surged through her body…surely she could make her live again.

Maman, adieu. Comme je t’aime. In another life, I will see you again.

Then the chamber blazed with all the colors of the spectrum, blinding Izzy, who flinched and covered her eyes with her hands. She felt heat against her skin and kept her eyes tightly shut, afraid that if she opened them she’d be blinded.

She opened her eyes. The chamber was filled with light. The walls appeared to have been carved out of living rock, and faded pictures were painted on them: a woman with a halo, a sword and a crucifix. A waist-high border of flames decorated the entire room.

“She has been kissed!” Annette cried again.

All at once the walls became crystalline. Pastel light shot up the faces as if they were being lit at floor level. The colors moved and danced, rippling as a strange hum vibrated through Izzy’s feet.

Then blurry faces appeared on each of the walls, their features softened by the light. As if someone had thrown a switch, they snapped into sharp focus.

There were hundreds of them. Round, soft brown faces. A purple-black masculine face striated with ritual scarification and heavy eye makeup. A woman’s middle-aged face bearing a red dot on her forehead. No bodies, only faces.

All staring at Izzy DeMarco, lately from Brooklyn, twenty-six, a civilian working for the NYPD in Property…and a magic-wielding dynastic monarch. She felt high, and frightened, triumphant and completely and totally defeated. None of this had been in the five-year plan for her life. In any plan for her life.

And yet…

From the sea of faces, the chocolate-brown features of a beautiful young woman commanded Izzy’s attention. She wore cornrows and large hoop earrings. Her generous mouth glistened with scarlet lip gloss, and her heavy eye makeup was turquoise.

Michel said, “Il faut présenter Isabelle de Bouvard, Maison des Flammes.” To Izzy, “Il faut présenter Hasana Zuri, notre dame des affaires.” He said in English, “Hasana Zuri leads the Grand Covenate.”

“I bid you welcome, Guardienne,” Hasana Zuri greeted her, in a high, clear voice with a British accent.

Then a low, husky voice said, “Mes sympathies pour votre perte.”

Izzy looked at the speaker. She was galvanized.

He was the antithesis of Jean-Marc. His close-cut hair was tawny and shot with gold. His angular face was nearly the same color, although there was a sunset sheen to his cheeks and full mouth; his eyes, a deep sea blue, nearly purple. There was a day’s growth of beard on the hollow of his cheeks, reddish brown, that matched his eyebrows.

He looked warm and tantalizing, and Izzy couldn’t stop staring at him. He seemed to be having the same trouble, because as he gazed at Izzy, his mouth worked, but no sound came out.

In the depths of Izzy’s body, he moved her. She felt as if he were standing in front of her, with his hands on her naked body. She had never felt such a palpable attraction. She was so aroused, so fascinated, she was certain everyone else could tell.

Magic, she told herself. It has to be.

“I’m Luc de Malchance, Maison du Sang,” he said in a thick French accent, clearing his throat as he spoke. “You are…the missing daughter of Marianne?”

Izzy managed a single nod, reminding herself that Jean-Marc had believed that the Malchances had backed Le Fils…which meant Aristide.

No, her body protested.

Mirielle raised a fist at him. “Malchance! You attacked us!”

Luc de Malchance’s glorious face pinched with concern as he shook his head, but his mesmerized gaze did not leave Izzy. Full lips pulled downward in protest of his innocence.

“Not we, madame,” he said. “I swear it.”

“What is this?” Hasana Zuri asked sharply, looking from Michel to Mirielle to Izzy.

“With your permission, we would like to table that for another time,” Michel soothed. He shot a murderous look at Mirielle. Michel hated the Grand Covenate. The last thing he would want to do was air their troubles in front of them.

“This is a serious charge.” Hasana Zuri cocked her head at Mirielle. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“Madame, please, this is not the time,” Michel said, but Mirielle took a step forward.

Her thin fingers curled into a fist that she shook at Luc. Her lined face grew taut, taking years off her appearance. “Le Fils attacked us! And you put him up to it!”

“This is a local matter,” Michel cut in. “We really prefer not to dwell on it at this sacred time.”

“Indeed, if a local vampire has been harassing you, that’s your private business,” Hasana Zuri said blithely. “Let’s move on.”

Mirielle opened her mouth in protest.

The woman with the red dot on her forehead spoke up.

“Madame la Guardienne, I am Chandra Shankar. I lead a Family called the Children of Shiva. I would be delighted to see you restore order to your Family.”

“Thank you,” Izzy said. “That’s my intention.” She was amazed at how calm she felt.

Hasana Zuri spoke again. “We are awaiting word on the decision in Montreal. Have you informed your former regent that you’ve assumed the guardianship?”

“Not yet,” Izzy said. She felt in her pocket for the cell phone.

“Will you be attending his investiture?” Hasana Zuri caught herself and said, “If he does indeed become the guardian?”

Michel said, “We’ll be holding a funeral in a week’s time, and then madame’s own investiture. Due to her peculiar circumstances, I think it unwise for her to venture up to Montreal in the immediate future.”

Izzy didn’t know how she felt about that. She had too much else to think about. Jean-Marc, a guardien. How would that change their relationship? How would it change him?

“We’ll make preparations to attend,” Hasana Zuri informed him. The other faces in the walls solemnly nodded. Izzy figured that for good news. The mansion would be full of powerful Gifted. If Aristide tried anything while the big boys were in town, he’d be squashed like a bug.

“And I will be there.” It was Luc de Malchance, the amber lion. His sea-blue eyes danced and glittered as he gazed at Izzy. When he smiled at her, she felt faint.

“How do you feel?” Luc asked her. “When my own transfer of power occurred, I was in bed for three days.”

“Hiding all the evidence,” Mirielle muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?” Luc asked with a polite, quizzical smile.

“Nothing. She said nothing,” Michel interjected.

Then suddenly Izzy hit the wall. Draining fatigue sapped her strength as if someone had sucked it out of her with a vacuum. Or a spell.

She looked for assistance at Michel, who said, “May I remind the Grand Covenate that the transfer has just occurred. Madame is understandably overwhelmed, and we need to inform our people.”

“Of course. If the Grand Covenate can be of assistance with anything, Isabelle, please don’t hesitate to call on us.”

“Madame thanks you.” Michel put an arm around Izzy and led her to the Louis XIV chair.

Call on me, and I will help you, Luc de Malchance told Izzy. I will do anything I can.

Then all the screens went dark.

And Izzy collapsed.

 

In the night:

Now it has begun. The hunt. The chase. The capture.

Look to your gun.

It is the answer.

I zzy woke in bed to discover that she had slept for three days, just as Luc Malchance had said that he had. Bijou was purring beside her. The Femmes Blanches were seated around her bed as before. Annette was fast asleep, her head on Izzy’s bed.

When Michel received word that Izzy had awakened, he came to her bedroom to debrief her. Jean-Marc had been made guardien of the Maison des Ombres, and sent his greetings. He promised he would be there for the funeral and the investiture. Michel had already launched into preparations, with technical assistance from Mirielle, who seemed to have made peace with the new order of things. As the oldest living Bouvard, she still remembered Marianne’s investiture and the funeral of her mother and grandmother.

Sophie took on the protocol and administrative tasks. She worked on the housing arrangements for all the heads of families, as well as a formal ball to be held in Izzy’s honor.

Izzy personally contacted Gelineau, Broussard and Jackson and invited them to the funeral and the ball after her investiture. They would not be allowed at the investiture; it was for Gifted only. Broussard and Jackson prized their invitations—who wouldn’t, with all the Gifted in attendance? But Gelineau was far more subdued.

You backed the wrong horse, didn’t you? she thought, as he thanked her for the gracious invitation.

Mirielle argued with Izzy when she invited Andre’s clan to the funeral, calling the werewolves “nothing but Cajun riffraff,” but Izzy prevailed. And when Sange came back to New Orleans, only mildly apologetic, she didn’t wait for an invitation. She simply took it for granted that she would be there.

And then…what to do about her family? Gino, Big Vince and Pat?

The Bouvards set to work, wielding their magic, and Izzy wondered if Jean-Marc had been wrong about the supposed toxicity of her family seat. Maybe Marianne’s strange half-life had been the cause of their weaker Gifts. Within hours, three duplicates of the sprawling Bouvard mansion had been created on the grounds. Each bedroom in each mansion was exquisitely appointed, befitting a head of state.

Flowers burst into bloom; music played everywhere—lutes, harps, recorders. The air was heavy with scent. It was like a fairy tale after a long curse has been lifted—even the Bouvards themselves had more color, more life.

Incredible quantities of food arrived—from local producers, in private jets, and some that she suspected was magically created. There were fruits she had never heard of, tastes she had never savored before. There was enough wine and champagne to get the entire borough of Brooklyn drunk—all top-of-the-line brands, a single glass of which would be far beyond a cop’s salary.

She was fitted for two new white gowns and a white cape with a twenty-foot train. Sophie retrieved the tiara her mother wore in the portrait in her bedroom from an attic room loaded with Bouvard treasures: jewels, the original deed to the mansion, old correspondence, books of spells, and arcana—athames, wands, powders, amulets and crystals. Izzy wanted to spend hours pouring through it all. Perhaps she could solve the mystery of her father’s identity.

But she had to backburner that as the Gifted began arriving after dark. Gifted ceremonies took place at night, when the moon was strong. She met Karen of the House of Magnusen, whose territory included the midwestern United States; and Richard Lockloth, the guardien of Australia; Mei Huang, of the Yellow River House of Q’in; and Ichiro Kanno, the Guardien of Honshu, one of the four main islands of Japan. Hasana Zuri came with an entourage, all outfitted in tribal gowns of green and black.

And…

“Monsieur Luc de Malchance, Guardien, Maison du Sang.”

Three hours before the funeral, the two metallic knights at the entrance of the great hall announced Luc’s arrival, and he swept through the double doors, golden and warm, dressed in a finely cut black suit with a black mourning band around the upper arm.

He bowed first to Hasana Zuri, who smiled faintly and inclined her head, and then went to Izzy, who had been seated in a chair conferring with Michel.

“Madame,” he said, bowing low.

His voice was like a balm on her frazzled, grieving nerves. She knew it could be a spell, but she didn’t care. She was tired and overloaded and her head hurt.

He blinked.

Her head stopped hurting.

“Thank you,” she said.

He took her hand. “If I might.” He pressed his fingertips against her forehead and cupped her other hand beneath his chin.

To her horror she began to cry.

“Let’s go see her,” he said. He slid her arm around his and walked her out of the great hall. Heads turned as they left. Michel followed at a discreet distance.

They went into Marianne’s original chamber, which was hung with black for the funeral. The Femmes Blanches—the White Women—were dressed all in black, their ebony veils over their faces. They kept their places as Luc entered with Izzy, who was still weeping uncontrollably.

Dark pennants decorated with red flames hung from the rafters. The white mosaics were covered over. Candles grouped around a statue of Joan of Arc softly flickered in the background.

He walked her up to her mother’s bier. So young-looking, so beloved. Marianne was dressed identically to Izzy, in a white coffin surrounded by lilies and white candles. Her hands were clasped across her heart.

Maman. Ma maman.

Izzy knelt at the side of the coffin and cried, while Luc stood quietly beside her. She gazed down at Marianne and could not let go. And could not let her own life go. But she’d done it already.

She didn’t know how long she cried; she was aware that the chamber door opened and closed several times. Voices whispered.

After a long time she looked over at Luc, and said, “Make me stop crying.”

“Not for the world,” he replied steadily. “You have held your tears in your entire life. If I am ever to meet the real guardienne of the Flames, your tears must shed the outer shell like a cocoon. The false strength, mothering your father, staying in control while your little heart broke.”

“I’m drowning in grief,” she implored him.

“You are learning to swim,” he said softly.

At last, Jean-Marc and Alain arrived. Dressed in a black suit, his hair tied back, Jean-Marc stood framed in the door of the chamber as Izzy sobbed.

Then he strode to the coffin and wrapped his arms around her, murmuring to her in French as he drew her aside, barking at Luc, who responded coolly.

Shielding her from the coffin, he pressed his fingers to her forehead. Oranges and roses filled her nostrils as he whispered to her in Latin, French and English.

“What is he thinking, what was he doing?” he muttered under his breath, as he stroked her forehead. “This is too much for you. You’ve grieved enough. He wants you to wallow. That’s an evil in itself.”

“He…I needed to cry,” she whispered. She laid her head against his chest. “Oh, God, Jean-Marc. She’s dead.”

“But you’re alive. I feel your power,” he said. His arms held her. His lips brushed the crown of her hair. “You’ve changed.”

“You’ve changed, too,” she ventured. He was warmer. Kinder.

“Not as much,” he said. “Our transfer of leadership isn’t as dramatic as yours.”

Then it was time for the funeral. Izzy sat with the Bouvards; Jean-Marc and Alain, with the other guests.

She had thought it would be a kind, loving ceremony. A celebration of her mother’s life. But it was violent, and about grief and despair. Banshees’ wails shook the platinum chandelier. Brittle white flames shot toward the ceiling, then winked out. The Femmes Blanches, for now the Femmes Noires, sobbed on their knees.

Michel delivered a eulogy that talked about the horrible loss to the House of the Flames. How a lovely light had been extinguished. Izzy thought of the waste—decades asleep, inert and ineffectual.

But she spoke to me before she died. She may have a life…elsewhere. Some other kind of existence.

Izzy hoped so.

After Alain’s speech, there was music on harps and flutes and other instruments Izzy had never seen. It was a heartbreaking, despairing dirge. She couldn’t stand it. She was bitter and disappointed.

Then, just as she reached the breaking point, there was release.

White mist descended, scented with lavender. The lilting sweet soprano chorus filled the room, and white light—Bouvard light—gleamed from the coffin. The glowing figure of the patroness—St. Joan, Jehanne d’Arc—appeared in full armor, blazing with glory.

Izzy gazed around the room, uncertain if anyone else saw her.

The martyr leaned over Marianne’s body, planting a kiss on her lips. When Jehanne straightened, a glowing copy of Marianne lay in her arms. A golden cord extended from the back of the double’s head to the corpse in the coffin.

In her gauntleted right hand, Jehanne gathered up the cord.

Her direct gaze fell on Izzy, and it was the first time Izzy had seen her face. She had dark eyes and a lush mouth and freckles across her nose. Her smile was tender and sweet.

She’ll ride with me now, so say farewell. Her lips didn’t move. Her voice was inside Izzy’s heart.

“Adieu, Maman,” Izzy said aloud.

Then Jehanne gave the cord a slight tug. It glimmered and blazed, filling the room with golden light that played over the black drapes and the somber clothes and the long faces. It was like a sunrise.

Then saint and warrior vanished in a flash of light. And Izzy, left behind, raised her tear-streaked face and raised her chin.

“Vive, Guardienne!” The cry rang around the room. “Isabelle, Maison des Flammes! Vive!”

 

The funeral was followed by a sumptuous buffet of New Orleans culinary specialties, champagne and liquor. Eating nothing, drinking a glass of red wine, she accepted the condolences of scores of people. Gelineau, his wife and his daughters, Desta and Monique, were there; and Broussard and Jackson, both stag. Izzy remembered her vision when she had seen Desta sacrificed to Esposito’s dark voodoo gods, and she had a terrible thought. Had Gelineau planned to let Esposito kill his own child? She’d have to table that for now…but it was definitely on her list to look into.

The reception was brief; the Gifted had attended Jean-Marc’s House’s ceremonies and now those of the Flames, and they were tired, just like regular people. By then, the triumphant notes of the funeral had faded, and Izzy was completely hollowed out by nerves and grief.

Jean-Marc walked with her as her heavy escort took her to her room. His eyes were hooded, wary, his gait quick and alert.

He said in a low voice, “Watch out for Luc.”

She nodded. “I am. I can’t deny that I feel a pull.”

His face was grim. “Of course you do. He’s Gifted.”

It’s more than that. Beyond the intense physical attraction, she couldn’t help liking him.

As they reached her door, his expression became grimmer still. Izzy braced herself for bad news.

“Attends, Isabelle. After the investiture, I have to go back to Montreal for a couple more days. There’s a faction in my House that’s very distressed that I was made guardien. A cousin of mine made an end run, pointing out that I was gone for three years. I need to make a presence. Then I’ll be back.”

No, she protested. Oh, God, don’t leave me in the middle of this. But she took a deep breath and nodded. “You do what you have to do,” she said. “Your duty.”

“My duty.” He said it as if it were a dirty word. His lip curled in disgust.

“Your duty was to find me. All this other crap is my crap,” she said.

“I will be back,” he repeated firmly. Then he looked hard at her and a vivid image of them together in bed blossomed in her mind. He was offering her his strength before he left. She’d be a fool to turn him down, but images of Pat superimposed themselves over the erotic visuals of her with Jean-Marc.

“It’s not the same as making love,” he reminded her. “It is a transfer of magical essence. Power.”

But my heart doesn’t know that, she thought. Maybe this is asking too much of it.

She didn’t answer.

 

Her investiture.

Izzy sat on a golden throne in an octagonal room that had been magically created on the grounds of the Bouvards’ estate for the event. It was enormous, holding all the Bouvards and the visiting Gifted heads of state. Stained-glass windows revealed the brilliant moon.

All around the room, white fire blazed without giving off heat or smoke. White mist enveloped the space, thinned and vanished. The room filled with the joyful singing of the angelic sopranos and the voices of the Bouvard children, sons and daughters of the Flames.

The Bouvards were all dressed in white. The members of the Grand Covenate wore elaborate robes and gowns, some of them like magicians; others, like Egyptian priestess, druids and mages. In turbans, veils, crowns, headdresses and masks, they each performed a spell to imbue the new guardienne with strength, wisdom, courage and intuition. Many of the spells were danced or sung. One involved what looked to Izzy like fireworks sparklers. She had to hide hysterical laughter at how bizarre some of them seemed to her.

She was so tired that her eyes were glazing over. She sat on her throne holding lilies and her athame, and her head ached.

Then Mirielle placed the tiara on Izzy’s head. The only thing left was to put on her mother’s ring, the symbol of her office. The Femmes Blanches gathered protectively around her as the moment arrived. The soprano voices rose in a chorus of jubilation. The hundreds of Gifted watched.

Izzy handed her lilies and her athame to Mirielle.

She stood.

Wearing the dark-blue spangled robe she had seen in her vision, Jean-Marc unfastened the necklace and slid off the heavy gold ring of office.

She held out her hand.

“I am Jean-Marc de Devereaux, Maison des Ombres,” he said, “the former regent of the House of the Flames.” He slipped the ring onto her finger. “With great pleasure, I present to you your lady, your guardienne.”

The cheers were deafening.

Across the room, the luminous figure of Jehanne sat astride a horse, her helmet down, her banner flying.

You are my warrior, she heard Jehanne proclaim.

Izzy smelled smoke and flame. She felt heat and danger. She did not feel love.

She felt power, expanding out, making her shaky and dizzy and…ready.

Jehanne raised her pennant and disappeared.

Izzy began to glow from head to toe, the brilliant white light blinding the others, who had to turn their heads.

Now I’ve done it, Izzy thought. Now I’m in.

 

The ball was held in the same room as the investiture. Everyone changed into ball gowns and tuxes. Hasana Zuri held court, and Sange danced with young, handsome Bouvard men. Caresse and Andre showed the string quartet how to play zydeco and soon had everyone stomping their feet and whistling.

Ice sculptures burned with white fire. Food and drink flowed freely. The affair was elegant, joyful but fraught with tension. And there was Jean-Marc, gazing at her with unabashed desire.

Luc, too, drew her like a magnet. His lazy smile and his loose ease reminded her of Pat.

Sexual energy coiled around both men—Gifted men, men who were used to exchanging power through passion.

When she finally left, Luc smiled at her and touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute. He raised his brows as if to say, “Tonight? Me?”

She was pleasant but firm as she gave her head a little shake.

When she got to her room, she found Jean-Marc standing beside the bed in his tux, drinking a flute of champagne. When he saw her, he set it down on the nightstand and watched her walk into the room.

She remembered how life-changing going to bed with Pat had been. Sex with Jean-Marc had been even more incredible. Her body quivered at the memory. But more important, it had imbued her with magical strength. Strength she might need to call on while Jean-Marc was gone.

He held out his hand. “This is important for you. I won’t be here to help.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m not going to do it, Jean-Marc. I understand what it means in your world. Our world. But it’s not what it means in…his.”

She closed her eyes against her tears as she heard herself. Pat’s world was all she had ever wanted.

Jean-Marc sighed. “It’s too soon for you. This has happened too fast, and I’m sorry, Isabelle. You know that.” He gestured to the bed. “I would almost force you, so you would have the benefit. Part of me is telling me to do just that.”

Tears welling, she smiled crookedly and said, “No naked blindfolds.”

He smiled back. It was something she had said to him long ago. He picked up his champagne again, toasted her, and took a sip.

“There is fine power in your integrity,” he said. “That will help.”

 

After Jean-Marc left, she called Pat.

“Tell me where you are,” he said. “Now.”

“I can’t,” she said. She took a breath, trying to form the words to tell him to stop looking for her. But she didn’t have that much integrity.

P at, holding her, cradling her, kissing her forehead and her cheeks, gazing into her eyes and murmuring, “Hey, you.”

Pat, spooning her, nuzzling her, his drowsy sigh against her temple. Whispering, “Honey, you asleep?”

 

Izzy woke. She wondered if Jean-Marc had given her a nighttime of lovemaking with Pat—for that was what it had been, making love. He had told her that the Devereauxes were master manipulators, and one of their specialties was altering dreams.

She thought of her erotic dream at Andre’s cabin, and wondered about that.

A few hours later, at a formal dinner, she thanked all her guests for coming. So many of them had asked for meetings and private audiences in the coming months that she couldn’t keep them all straight. She was leaving the scheduling to Michel. For now, everyone was going back to their homes, to give her some time to begin her reign.

In the driveway, as they loaded into a limo, Jean-Marc held her hands in his and reminded her of his promise to return soon.

They shared a long look and then she said, “I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he said.

She wondered if they were lying.

Alain kissed her on both cheeks, and they left.

She didn’t call Pat. The dreams had brought home that what she wanted from him was not what she could have. So she sat for a while with that thought.

And then she cried, long and hard.

She called her father—or the man she had always assumed was her father, until Jean-Marc had located her and told her about her mother. Now she had no idea who her real father was.

“Hey, Big Vince,” she began, taking a deep breath. “I have something we need to talk about. The reason I’ve been gone so long—”

“Yeah, Iz,” he said. “Captain Clancy told me all about it.”

Izzy pulled in her stomach as if she’d been gut-punched. That hadn’t been what she’d expected to hear. She and Clancy had certainly not discussed it.

“Heard you’re helping out the Feebs. Esposito’s connected, eh? Tough duty, having to hang out in Florida.”

She closed her eyes. Whose brilliant idea had it been to tell him she was working with the FBI? It didn’t surprise her that he’d bought it. Jean-Marc had explained to her that Gifted could come to Ungifted in dreams and slowly plant whatever information they wanted them to believe. But why hadn’t she been consulted? Now what was she going to say?

“Gino’s bragging to all the other guys that his sister’s going to join the FBI. There’s a thought, Iz. Not out in the field, but as a data analyst, something like that.”

“You’re right, Big Vince,” she said. “There’s a thought. Great thought.” She pressed her fingertips against her forehead. “Well, I’ll check in again later.”

They hung up. The unreality of her real life swept over her again in huge waves—she was going to have to tell him sometime; she had just postponed the inevitable. Clearly Gino hadn’t told Big Vince that Izzy had confided in him about her adoption. But then, Gino had thought she was on a vacation and due to come home soon. So the whole mess was all still on her plate

Exasperated and unnerved, she sought solace with a run, jogging the perimeter of the vast grounds with two stalwart Bouvard operatives in tow. Other operatives, locked and loaded, kept watch from the verandahs and rooftop of the original mansion. It was afternoon, the first day of the rest of her life. Muscles and emotions ratcheted up; then her endorphins kicked in and she began to feel slightly less jangled.

When she was finished, the two Bouvards kept their distance as she stretched her calf muscles and popped open a sports bottle of water and toweled off her face and arms. But they were smiling. A lot of people around the mansion were smiling. Her mother’s reign had been a strain on everyone.

She said, “Same time tomorrow?” and they both bowed low, smiles becoming grins.

“Of course, Guardienne,” said the taller of the two.

And then she spotted Luc de Malchance ambling toward her with Michel and Sophie in tow. Charisma rolled off Luc in waves, and Izzy couldn’t help her response. She wanted to put herself on her guard. She wanted to mistrust him, the way everyone else in her family did. The way the Devereauxes did. But he seemed like a sunny, happy man with an unfortunately theatrical last name.

For his part, Michel looked like he was choking, and Sophie, as if she would prefer to be anywhere else. The three Bouvard guards walking behind them looked like they had itchy trigger fingers.

“Guardienne,” Luc said, hailing her. “I was hoping for a few moments with you before I left.”

To give herself time to consider, Izzy tapped the plastic spigot against her tongue for the last few drops. Sophie darted forward to retrieve it from her. She held her hand out for the towel, as well, but Izzy kept it.

“All right. Let’s walk,” she said to Luc, waiting for him to come to her. He did. Good feelings, good humor emanated off him in waves. After everything she’d heard about the Malchances, she’d expected some kind of deformed villain with a black cape and a handlebar moustache. Appearances could certainly be deceiving, she reminded herself. Hadn’t Lucifer been the most beautiful of all the angels?

The rest of the party—Michel, Sophie and the three guards—followed three paces behind. As she strolled beside Luc in the sunshine, Izzy inhaled freshly mown grass, the far-off moldy odor of the swamp. A bird trilled.

“Aristide,” he said without preamble. “Here, in New Orleans.”

She lifted her brows. The world was full of surprises today.

Sliding a glance his way, she said, “We thought he was a myth.”

“We know he’s not,” Luc replied. “In fact, we’ve been doing fact-gathering on him for years. We’re not surprised he’s made a move. We’ve been wondering when. And where.”

“And?” she prompted, although she knew full well where he was going with this.

“We have a lot to offer you. We can help.”

“And in return?”

He shrugged, and the gesture reminded her of Jean-Marc. And that reminded her that he wasn’t here. She was on her own.

“We want to get rid of him, too. You know that our patron is a demon. Like the Devereauxes. Malfeur doesn’t care for Aristide and his ambitions. And we like to keep our patron happy.” He crossed his eyes. “Grumpy patron, grumpy House.”

“That’s very practical,” she drawled, amused.

He bent down and plucked a dandelion from the grass. Smiled at it as they walked together. “Plus, we could use the goodwill. Somewhere along the line, we developed bad blood—that’s a pun—with the House of the Flames and the House of the Shadows. But we were the original three, founded to defeat Aristide.”

“So the legend goes,” Izzy said. She forced herself to look away from his face. She couldn’t help liking him. Wanting him. “There’s a trust issue.”

“Bien sûr. Exactly what I’m saying.” He took a breath and blew on the dandelion. None of the little fibers detached from the puffy sphere, and he smiled. “Maybe if we help you defeat Aristide, you will trust us.”

“The Devereauxes have offered,” she pointed out.

“I have no problem with that.” He held out the dandelion. “This is my olive branch. I’m rather new as guardien myself, did you know that? My uncle Etienne was our guardien until about five years ago.”

He wiggled the dandelion at her. “We’re the new generation. Seriously, Isabelle—may I call you Isabelle?” At her nod, he continued. “We have information. We’ll give it to you, no strings. If you want more help, you let me know.”

“I’ll talk to my cabinet,” she said. Which she had yet to form.

“D’accord. Now, I have a plane to catch,” he said. With a deep bow, he wheeled around and left her standing alone. She gave the dandelion a puff, and the little wisps of white scattered.

“You forgot to make a wish,” Luc said over his shoulder.

Then he left, simple as that.

Michel approached. “What did he say? What did he do?” he demanded.

Izzy told him.

“We should refuse,” Michel said. “Stay as far away from them as we can.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” Izzy promised, her gaze following Luc as he ambled away.

 

Later on, she took Bijou with her to Marianne’s chamber—now called simply “the” chamber—to work on Bouvard healing magic with the Femmes Blanches. It seemed that aside from an occasional burst, she had no facility for healing other than through sex, which she was not about to discuss with them.

“I must not have been there when they passed out the healing gene,” she apologized to one of the women.

“Oui, madame,” the woman replied, but it was obvious to Izzy that all the Femmes Blanches were very troubled.

As day was turning into afternoon, she called Michel into her office to ask him about it. Standing in front of her large white desk covered with a calendar blotter imprinted with the Flames logo and, she assumed, Jean-Marc’s spare handwriting in the squares of the month—for plans that no longer pertained—he looked just as concerned as the Femmes Blanches.

“Each House has basic Gifts,” he said. “The Devereauxes, for example, are excellent at glamours. The Malchances are quick and sharp in battle—be it against supernaturals or in the boardroom. They’re very good at summoning demons, which we, of course, do not condone.”

Izzy said, “The Devereauxes can also summon demons.”

“There is that,” Michel said, as if that proved a particularly favorite point of his. Which it did. “I think you have been told that for us, though, it is an act punishable by death.”

She picked up a white pen and clicked the point in and out, in and out. Caught herself, and put it down. She was edgy. She needed to shower off the magical residue from working with the Femmes Blanches.

“Yes, understood,” she said. “But why?”

“It’s our tradition,” he replied, again as if that should suffice.

She let it go. She had no plans to raise demons in the near future, anyway.

He paced, as edgy as she, apparently. “It is privately believed by us that the Malchances are also adept at stealing souls. And we are the healers. It is part of who we are.”

“Except for me,” Izzy said. “Are you’re saying that means I’m not a Bouvard?”

Paling, he stopped and waved a hand in front of his face, casting anxious glances left and right, as if someone would overhear, although they were alone. He had assured her that the office was warded, but she wondered if that were really the case. How many scrying stones were tuned in, spying on the new guardienne to see how she was working out?

He said in a hushed tone, “You know there are unhappy members of our family who would love to use what you just said against you.”

“This room is warded,” she reminded him, testing him.

“And yet,” he beseeched her.

So I am being spied on.

She tried another tack. “Have you made any headway finding out who my father is?” If lack of a healing Gift indicated that she wasn’t fully de Bouvard, what was she?

He shook his head. “So much has been going on.”

“Eh, bon,” she said. She pushed back from her desk. “Let’s keep looking.”

He inclined his head. “Oui, Guardienne.”

 

During the next few nights, Izzy stood on the verandah and listened to the voodoo drums rumbling in the bayou. Large bonfires flickered and shimmered; smoke rose into the night sky and caressed the moon.

Against Michel’s wishes, she traveled through the bayou, by day, and visited the werewolves’ camp. Half the pack had remained in New York to guard Pat, Gino and Big Vince. Andre had arranged for her to meet with Mamaloi, since the old voodoo woman refused to come to the Bouvards’ mansion. Izzy took note of Mamaloi’s ill will toward the Gifted being charged with protecting all Ungifted and supernaturals within their borders. It still wasn’t clear to her why the Flames insisted that voudon lay beyond their provenance.

So she ate gumbo and listened to the little boy’s accordion and assured him that Bijou was just fine. She took a nice long bath in the cracked porcelain tub while Caresse made beignets.

Then Mamaloi communed with her loa. Her god had bad news: Aristide was practicing voudon to gain more power in his bid to open the conduit.

“You should come to the mansion,” Izzy urged Andre.

“We’re safer in the bayou,” he replied, arranging his gris-gris around her neck. “You would be, too.”

Later, Izzy was sitting in bed reading the large dossier on Aristide that Luc had e-mailed her. Le Fils’s cache of arcane books sat beside her bed. Steam was practically rising from the top of her head; she’d had a bad fight on the phone with Jean-Marc, who didn’t want her to have anything to do with Luc. But she’d pointed out quite reasonably that she, not he, was the one listening to voodoo drums whose message Mamaloi reluctantly translated: they foretold Aristide’s victory over “the world.”

Jean-Marc was frustrated he couldn’t be there. He had serious problems in Montreal. He’d made a lot of enemies. Some of them claimed that his father’s death was suspiciously well timed: out of a job in New Orleans, a supposedly power-hungry Jean-Marc was more than ready to clear the way for the mantel of guardien.

So while he couldn’t come down to help her himself, he wanted her to reject any and all contact with Luc on general principle. Maybe Luc was feeding her disinformation. Maybe he had already thrown his lot in with Aristide himself. She didn’t see the harm in reading a simple download, which had been checked and rechecked for magic spells by her special ops forces and D’Artagnon himself—although she thought his abilities and his loyalties both were questionable.

She turned to a page labeled Known Associates. The names Le Fils and Baron Samedi popped out at her. She had learned from Andre and Mamaloi that Baron Samedi was one of the most powerful bokors in all of voudon, and that he was Haitian. The Malchance headquarters was in Haiti.

“Samedi last seen in Port-au-Prince. Voodoo ceremony. Six young girls and three men sacrificed.”

The date was three months before.

“Le Fils: estranged mate of Sange, Vampire Doyenne of New Orleans. Associates with Julius Esposito, bokor.”

Written four months before. If she’d seen this report when it had been written, she would have known that Esposito was working with Le Fils.

“Sauvage, Ungifted goth, infiltrated regent’s inner circle, works for Le Fils.”

“God,” Izzy said aloud. All this could have been so much help.

The voodoo drums played on.

 

The book The Conduit talked about magical confluence and stellar alignments, and Michel set several learned Bouvard scholars to the task of establishing a time window when Aristide’s attempt to open a portal to hell might be propitious. Failing that, they looked to coded events: “when the moon bleeds”; “when the daughter burns.”

“When the daughter burns—could this mean when you became guardienne?” Michel asked during one of their late-night meetings.

She debated about asking Luc. She didn’t know if he knew about the books they’d confiscated. He had given her valuable information. All she’d given him in return was hope for a relationship with her House. She figured that given the unequal risk levels, it was a fair trade. But eventually he would want some payback. She wondered if he was withholding data so that she would have to play a little fairer to get it.

The voodoo drums talked about the abandoned convent. It was said to be haunted; Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen of nineteenth-century New Orleans, was said to have kidnapped young postulants—virgins—to use in sacrifices. Some said the vibrations of fear and horror there would aid in the use of the Dark Arts.

But nothing showed up on the scrying stones the Bouvards had planted all over the tunnel, and in the abandoned convent itself. None of Izzy’s armed patrols came up with anything.

Still…tourists went missing. There was a news report about a daylight attack on a woman by a white-faced, fanged creature. Reporters were beginning to ask questions that hit too close to the mark: Could it be that New Orleans actually was home to vampires?

Sange was enraged.

“You must do something,” she told Izzy as she paced in Izzy’s office. “I have a nest in the French Quarter. My sirelings are terrified that vigilantes will come after them. You have a duty to protect us. We have a treaty with you.”

Feeling the pressure, Izzy passed Luc’s report and all the books to Michel and better-educated Bouvards who had a shot at understanding them. At a loss, she trained and honed her fighting skills…and worked on her Gift. Nothing came of her attempts to heal.

 

One night, just as Izzy was getting ready for bed, Pat called.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, aware that she was echoing his outraged question of not so long ago.

He said, “Iz, I’ve been underground. Things in New York got hot. I want you to know that I’m on my way to New Orleans.”

“Hot?”

“It’s okay now. Werewolves took care of it. They told me where you are in return. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Damn it,” she said. “Pat, go back. Stay away.”

The phone went dead.

She checked the cell, dialed *69 to call him back. There was nothing.

She slipped on a pair of jeans and a white sweater and asked the guard in the hall to summon Michel. Michel arrived and worked magic to boost the phone’s signal. Nothing.

Izzy slid her Medusa into her shoulder holster and grabbed a black jacket out of the armoire.

In Izzy’s octagonal office, the walls were covered with photos, daguerreotypes and oils of the unbroken line of guardiennes. Their eyes seemed to watch Izzy and Michel as they tried the mansion’s bank of phones. Every single line was nonfunctional.

I dreamed this. It was set back in New York, but parts of it were about this.

“I’m feeling very ill,” Michel reported.

With a start, Izzy became aware that she was, too. It was a sensation like food poisoning, rolling in her gut and giving her the shakes.

Annette appeared in the office doorway. Her face was gray and she was sweating profusely. She said, “Madame, monsieur, something’s wrong with our magical field. No one’s spells are working. People are getting sick.”

Michael inhaled sharply. “We’re under magical attack,” he said. “We’ll gather everyone in the chamber to organize a defense. I’ll alert security.”

Within minutes a heavy guard escorted Izzy down the chamber. The Femmes Blanches had already assembled, and one of them explained to Izzy that they were trying to cleanse the mansion.

“It’s contaminated,” she said, panting. Then she turned and bolted, throwing up in one of the vases of lilies near Izzy’s throne.

Mirielle dragged herself forward, pointed to Izzy and said, “It’s because something is wrong with her. She’s not supposed to be our guardienne.”

Michel, who was leading a stream of Bouvards, approached Mirielle and put his hands around hers.

“Please, Madame Mirielle, not now, eh? We’re in crisis.”

“But it is because of her,” Mirielle insisted. She huffed and turned away. She stomped over to an empty chair and flopped down, hanging her head over her knees. “I am dying,” she reported.

Izzy sat on her throne and tried to keep from vomiting as the Bouvards gathered. The crush of people was overwhelming. She was getting sweatier by the second. She leaned her head back as chills ran through her, twisting her joints and muscles. The Femmes Blanches came to her, holding her hands.

“Madame,” Alain said, jiggling her shoulder. “Madame, the mayor has arrived.”

She jerked to attention. Why was the mayor here? First Pat, then the mansion is magically altered, now the mayor was calling on them?

Mayor Gelineau stood in front of her, and his appearance shocked her. The man had aged twenty years since she had last seen him.

“My daughter Desta is missing,” he said, running his hands along the sides of his face. “I can’t find her anywhere.”

Izzy’s blood ran cold. Although she had suspected him before of willingly handing his daughter over for sacrifice, his terror appeared to be genuine. The anxiety was flying off him; she could practically see it.

She said to Michel, “Send out search parties. Go everywhere. Comb the French quarter. And the bayou.”

“Oh, God, thank you,” Gelineau said, grabbing her hand. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay. We’ll find her,” she said tersely. She looked down at her jeans. “I’ll change.” She’d search the bayou herself.

Michel caught her drift immediately. “You can’t leave the mansion.”

She looked at him hard and said, “I’ll change.”

“But I like you just like that,” Luc said from the entrance to the chamber.

Dressed in black leather, a submachine gun around his neck, he smiled sunnily at her. The enormous contingent of men and women dressed in black body armor behind him did not.