“Jean-Marc,” Isabelle said. She looked wan and exhausted, and her eyes were swollen, as if she’d been crying. Fear rolled off her in waves. He wished he could send a calming spell her way, but he had to stay focused on Kittrell.

  “Pat, put the gun down,” she told her boyfriend. So she had heard him. Maybe there was a chance that they could all walk away safely from this….

  “No way,” Kittrell gritted, raising the gun and aiming it straight at Jean-Marc.

  “You’re glad to see me,” Jean-Marc said aloud, “because I’m here to help you.” He doubled—tripled—his magical efforts, aware that he was already sorely taxed. The attack at Bobby’s house and the search for Isabelle would have drained him even if he hadn’t been recently wounded and unsouled.

  “I’m here to help,” Jean-Marc repeated. “I’m a powerful magic user, and you’re in my world now. I’m the answer to your prayers.” Normally he wouldn’t speak aloud, simply work in his target’s mind. But he was tired, and words had power.

  Kittrell frowned. The frown slipped. His face went slack.

  “You are so glad to see me. Why wouldn’t you be?” Jean-Marc said. The man was strong-willed, single-minded. A challenge.

  Jean-Marc pushed again. Finally Pat smiled and lowered the Medusa to his side.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Kittell said. “Good to see you, Devereaux.”

  “Likewise,” Jean-Marc said, moving his attention to Isabelle. She was glaring at him.

  “Leave him alone,” she said angrily.

  “We’re here now, so we can all go in one car to New York,” Jean-Marc continued, ignoring her. “That’s a better idea, non?”

  “I suppose it is,” Kittrell said. He smiled at Isabelle. “I know you’re tired and my head is about to explode. We could use a break.”

  “Pat, he’s brainwashing you.”

  She stepped around him and marched up to Jean-Marc. He wanted to grab her and hold her, reassure himself that she had not died. They’d had so many close calls—too many. Many high-level Gifted had died at the hands of fabricants. Stripped of her Gift as she was, it was a miracle that she stood before him now. Surely it was proof that her patroness had not deserted her.

  “It’s okay, Iz,” Pat said. “Devereaux and I are good.”

  “Don’t do this,” she hissed at Jean-Marc. “Don’t manipulate him, too.”

  Jean-Marc set his jaw. His fear for her metamorphosed into anger. Everything he did was to protect her. He didn’t have to abandon his family in Montreal to sneak into the bayou; he didn’t have to lose his soul while trying to save her. Was she so blind and so stupid that she couldn’t comprehend the enormity of his sacrifices?

  Merde, he wanted to throttle her. Or shoot her. Oui, render her unconscious and then make her beg for his forgiveness. Make her repudiate this man, this Ungifted…

  …this man who had repeatedly saved her life.

  “I can’t release him while he’s armed,” Jean-Marc told her.

  She blazed; there was no other word for it. Beneath the scarlet moon, she whirled on her heel, walked over to Pat and grabbed the gun out of his hand. He didn’t protest, only smiled quizzically at her.

  She pointed the gun toward the ground, stomped over to Jean-Marc and thrust it at him by the grip.

  “Here,” she said. “Take it. I never wanted it anyway. I hate guns.”

  Then her chin quivered and her eyes welled. “Look, I know I have to go with you. You don’t have to hypnotize me, too. But if I ever find out that you played us back at that motel, put the fear of God in us so we’d come with you, I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Iz,” Pat protested, “He’s just looking out for us.” He rubbed his temples and moved his shoulders. “I’m glad we’ve got some backup. This flying solo is six kinds of wrong.”

  “Fair enough,” Jean-Marc said to Izzy, ignoring Pat. He extended his arm. “If you can ever prove that I created a Malchance fabricant to hunt you down and kill you, you have my permission to kill me. Come with us in the minivan. Both of you. Now.”

  Kittrell wrinkled his forehead. “What about Bobby’s car?”

  “Alain will arrange for it to be returned to him,” Jean-Marc promised.

  “All right. We should wipe it down for prints,” Kittrell said. “That 911 call probably set an investigation in motion.”

  Jean-Marc waved his hand. “Done. And I have people doing cleanup on the call. It will be taken care of.”

  “See, Iz?” Pat said. “Everything is going to work out.”

  Flushing, she took Pat’s hand.

  “Take the spell off,” she ordered Jean-Marc.

  “Get in the van.” He turned and walked back alone. Alain was behind the wheel with his .357 in his lap. He fastened wary eyes on Isabelle and Kittrell as he activated the door release and the panel slid back. Jean-Marc stood beside the vehicle, waiting until both Isabelle and Pat were inside. Then he shut the door, went around and climbed back in his seat.

  “Allons-y,” he told Alain. Let’s go.

  Alain turned the engine back on and angled the Odyssey onto the two-lane road. For about a minute, they rode in silence.

  Then Isabelle said, “You said you’d take the spell off him.”

  “I’m not under a spell, darlin’,” Kittrell declared.

  “How’s your head, Kittrell?” Jean-Marc asked pointedly. By eliminating Kittrell’s combativeness, he had decreased the man’s stress—and with it, his headache.

  “Good. God, that was a killer migraine.”

  “Take it off.” Isabelle’s voice was glacial.

  “No,” Jean-Marc replied.

  “You said—”

  “I did not. I never said.”

  “You…jerk.”

  Alain cast a weary glance at him. “We’ll be in New York soon. Everyone should try to get some rest.” Then he waved his hands over the steering wheel and dropped his hands in his lap. The car was on magical autopilot now. Alain couldn’t sleep, but he could take it a little easier.

  “I’ll check in with Georges and Dom,” Jean-Marc said, pulling out his cell phone. He speed-dialed Dom.

  “No sign of the creator of the fabricant,” Dom told him. “There was a crowd by the time we pulled up. Over a dozen police vehicles. We assumed glamours as cops to fit in. We cleaned the room of all traces of any of you. No one will be able to collect any hair or DNA.”

  “Good. No voodoo dolls today, then,” Jean-Marc replied. He heard a stirring in the backseat and glanced up at the rearview mirror. Isabelle’s dark eyes were reflected back at him. They burned like embers.

  Finally she said, “Voodoo dolls? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I am serious,” he said. “It’s all serious.”

  “Not really,” Kittrell piped up.

  Jean-Marc sighed. “When we get to the safe house, I’ll take it off.”

  “I’m not thanking you,” she informed him.

  Silence fell; it began to rain. Thick raindrops the color of mercury pelted the windshield as they took the New Jersey Turnpike to the Holland Tunnel.

  Jean-Marc watched Isabelle in the rearview mirror as she stared out the window like a tourist who had never been to the big city before. He didn’t need to read her thoughts: she had lived in Brooklyn for all but three months of her life, but she didn’t remember anything about New York.

  Coordinating with security, they received a heavy escort through Manhattan as they neared the safe house. They blew past Rockefeller Center and the Hilton. Andre and a van full of werewolves drove on their left; two heavily warded trucks and three cars filled with Michel’s loyal Bouvards and Jean-Marc’s Devereaux special ops rode ahead, to the right and behind the Odyssey. Jean-Marc was on full alert, like a bloodhound. He felt the tension in the air. Anger. Fear.

  They tasted delicious on his tongue.

  Everyone glided into the private entrance to the building’s parking garage. The penthouse occupied the entire floor of the towering skyscraper and came with a generous number of parking spaces as well as a private elevator.

  Surrounded by armed Gifted, Michel joined Jean-Marc, Isabelle, Alain and Kittrell, entered the private elevator and went up. An armed Devereaux soldier stood at attention when the door slid open.

  “Le Gardien et la Gardienne!” he announced. Beyond him, at least a dozen security forces in full battle regalia snapped to attention. An equal number of Femmes Blanches in white robes and veils knelt and lowered their heads.

  “Merci bien,” Jean-Marc replied.

  The soldiers dropped to one knee. Michel and Alain followed suit. Only Jean-Marc, Isabelle and Kittrell remained standing. Kittrell’s expression was guarded as Isabelle took his hand, signaling to everyone that they were together. Jean-Marc was certain she had no idea that the sight of their Guardian paired with an Ungifted man was extremely offensive to the assembled group who paid her homage.

  He ticked his glance at Michel, who was looking up at the couple with a taut, unhappy expression. Their eyes met, and Jean-Marc realized he was going to have to tell Michel that Isabelle had lost both her memory and her Gift. She was going to make too many mistakes. Michel would have to brief her on their customs—he’d done it before, sat with her and showed her photographs of her many relatives, her allies and her enemies. A stickler for protocol, he would keep her from making more enemies through sheer ignorance of propriety.

  “Madame, welcome,” said Suzanne, the most senior of the Femmes Blanches at the safe house. She rose to her feet. Jean-Marc had ordered a group of seven Femmes Blanches to stay in the New York safe house, against just such an occasion as this. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle replied.

  “Would Madame like to take a look around? We haven’t changed a thing,” she continued.

  “Yes, thank you.” Isabelle smiled at her.

  He knew that smile cost her. He was impressed with how well she was carrying off the charade that she hadn’t lost her memory. He and Alain had debated allowing the other three Femmes Blanches—Denise, Sara and Lucienne—to complete the journey to New York. They had either been witnesses to the revelation that Isabelle was half Malchance or knew someone who had been. But in this day and age of cell phones and e-mail, one could only assume the New York contingent had been informed and had chosen to remain as part of Izzy’s retinue. Jean-Marc was grateful to them.

  Pat trailed after Isabelle and the Femmes Blanches. Jean-Marc understood her anger; his spell had diminished Pat in her eyes. A strong woman like her needed a strong man. Pat was strong. Unfortunately he was unsuitable on so many other levels.

  It would have made my life easier if the fabricant had killed him.

  Such a thought was beneath him, and Jean-Marc was irritated with himself. He was in a bad spot. He felt the evil thing drilling holes in his soul and shook himself all over, like a wet dog, as if he could force it to leave.

  Tense and miserable, he walked into the formal dining room off the kitchen, to find it filled with familiar faces. Alain sat at an oval, burnished cherrywood table with his most senior operatives: Dom, Lucky, Maurice, Georges and two newer arrivals—Christian and Gabriel, direct from Shadows headquarters in Montreal.

  All stood and snapped to attention when he entered. He accepted their acknowledgment with a regal air and no warmth. He knew he had a reputation as a man who was tightly controlled and aloof. It had been said of him that there was a block of ice where his heart should have been. He didn’t care what they thought of him; his only interest lay in using their perception to his advantage, so he could be an effective leader.

  “Just what I need,” he said, as he crossed to the table. Alain had opened a bottle of Armagnac, a fine French brandy. Jean-Marc assumed it was a tip of the hat to Jehanne. She had fought on the Armagnac side of the war.

  A shimmering lead crystal goblet etched with the Bouvard logo of a trio of flames sat before each man. Jean-Marc had personally selected everything in the coop himself, to introduce Isabelle to the family she had been chosen by fate to lead.

  At the head of the table, an empty glass awaited him. It was customary not to serve food or drink to a Devereaux Guardian until he was present, to make poisoning less likely. As his men remained standing, Alain filled Jean-Marc’s goblet.

  “To Jehanne d’Arc, patroness of the Flames, and to our Grey King,” Jean-Marc intoned, raising his glass. “And to my brave Shadows.”

  “To the patrons, and to Jean-Marc, our Gardien,” Dominique replied. The others raised their glasses as well, although Christian looked down, uncomfortably. His dark hair was gelled, and a dove tattoo graced the back of his hand. His lips were pursed and tight. Jean-Marc knew that something was very wrong. He could feel it. Everyone else at the table could, too. Faces were tense; backs were up.

  Each took a sip, ritualistically savoring the bouquet. Then Jean-Marc set his glass on the table, and everyone sat. Soon he’d unpeel this damnable armor and take a shower. He was fortunate; he’d washed off layers of magical residue when he’d dipped himself in the Atlantic. He doubted that the others had had such an opportunity, and they would be suffering depression and anxiety due to that lack.

  I must remind Isabelle to take a shower, he thought, then wondered if she had any magical residue to wash off. She certainly hadn’t cast any spells recently.

  Except on me. She holds me in thrall. By the Grey King, when I saw her alive and well…

  “Let’s debrief,” he said. “La situation. Christian.”

  Christian lifted his glass of Armagnac off the table and studied the ring of condensation on the wood.

  So the news was to be of the worst kind.

  So be it.

  “Monsieur, you have been deposed,” he said simply. “Declared a traitor.”

  Roars of anger ringed the table; Jean-Marc held up a hand to quell them. It was nothing less than what he expected. He wasn’t regretful—he would have done anything to save Isabelle from Luc de Malchance—but it was a blow. Until Isabelle, he had always put the family first. It was what he had been trained to do.

  “Go on,” he ordered his man.

  Christian took another sip of Armagnac, as if for courage. Oranges and roses wafted around the table—the men were attempting to maintain some semblance of calm—and Christian raised his chin.

  “It was declared that the Gardien had abandoned his family to rescue Madame de Bouvard. Then it was learned that Madame is half Malchance, which would not normally have posed a problem, as we Devereauxes declare ourselves neutral in the dealings with both the House of the Flames and the Blood.”

  “These are not normal times,” Jean-Marc said flatly.

  “Non,” Christian replied, gazing back down at the table. “They are not.”

  Gabriel took up the thread. “When Luc de Malchance invaded the House of the Flames, he thumbed his nose at all the Houses and clans who are members of the Grand Covenate—that would include us, of course, as well as the House of the Flames. He promised to destroy us with demons and dark arts. All around the world, evil is manifesting—demons from the Dark Side are rampaging in the night; vampires are emboldened. Werewolf howls were heard last night within the Montreal city limits.”

  “These things can be taken care of,” Jean-Marc said.

  “The Malchances are being blamed,” Christian said.

  “Isabelle conjured a demon, and that demon killed Luc de Malchance,” Jean-Marc countered. “Proving that she is loyal to the House of the Flames.”

  “With all due respect, you have no proof that she did any such thing,” Christian put in. “We have no reliable Devereaux witnesses to corroborate that story. You were unsouled at the time. And Alain had been beaten unconscious. There were no other Devereauxes there.”

  “It has been claimed,” Gabriel said delicately, “that by remaining in the United States with Madame Isabelle instead of returning to Montreal, you’ve sided with the Malchances.”

  “C’est fou. That’s ridiculous,” Jean-Marc scoffed. “Who came up with this convoluted nonsense to defame me? It was my idiot brother, François, non?”

  Their long faces were his answer. His younger brother, François, had coveted the crown of the House of the Shadows his entire life.

  Idiot. Traitor. Order his death. Make it slow.

  Jean-Marc tamped down his fury and silenced the demonic voice in his head. He wondered what Callia thought of all this. They weren’t formally engaged, but the expectation was there.

  “Last night, the council approved François’s request to be named as Regent,” Christian explained. “Then he convinced them to take a public stand against the Malchances. The House of the Shadows has formally declared them our enemies.”

  “Putain de merde,” Georges groaned.

  “We never declare anyone an enemy. We gain nothing by such grandstanding,” Jean-Marc insisted, exasperated. “Neutrality has always served us well.”

  “You weren’t there to argue that point,” Christian said coldly.

  Why didn’t you speak on my behalf?

  Why didn’t you murder my enemies?

  Jean-Marc took a sip of Armagnac and pondered what to say. The men were scrutinizing him, waiting to see how he would react. Jean-Marc was not a man who reacted; he acted.

  “So be it, Christian,” he said. “I will assume that you’re here as a messenger, and you may safely return to Montreal in the morning.” He looked at the rest of his men. “I offer the same to all of you. Whoever stays here will be branded with the same iron as me.”

  Most shook their heads. Christian stared at his glass. Then Dom pushed back his chair and stood.

  “You’re still my Gardien, monsieur. My commander-in-chief. We’ll fix this.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty,” Jean-Marc replied, “but things aren’t that simple. I can’t go back right now.”

  “Madame Isabelle is not your concern,” Gabriel asserted.

  “Monsieur has sustained some terrible magical injuries and can’t travel,” Alain said. “But I have hopes of restoring him before the next full moon.”

  “The next full moon?” Gabriel cried. “We need you now!”

 

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