“I want to help, too,” she insisted. “I’ll come to the meeting.”

  “You’d just be in the way,” he said. “You don’t remember your training and I have a lot to deal with.”

  “Then I’ll stay here.” She gestured to the woman whose hand she held. “She just told me that I’m welcome.”

  The heads of the veiled women shifted slightly. He was pleased to know Isabelle had been able to hear the woman’s telepathic words. That was progress, indeed. And of course they would welcome her presence—she was their Guardian.

  But he didn’t want her lack of healing Gift to be paraded before them. And besides, she must attend to her own preparations for war. Maybe deep down inside, she knew that another test waited for her even as she stood here with him. A test he had devised, in order to save a life.

  He allowed himself a moment of pity for her, then steeled himself. He would be waiting for her on the other side. But it wasn’t his place to walk her through it. In this, she was alone.

  Not alone. Just, not with me.

  “Go to your bedroom,” he said firmly.

  “I’m feeling dismissed,” she said, then she flushed and shrugged her shoulders. “And you don’t care.”

  “I don’t have time to care,” he informed her. He studied her face, the classic oval, the high cheekbones. She was beautiful. A pang of sympathy prompted him to add, “I can make a potion for you that will put you to sleep, if you find you’re having trouble…later.”

  “I’m fine,” she retorted.

  He inclined his head. “Remember that, Isabelle. You’re fine.”

  Izzy didn’t know what he was getting at but she was too tired to pull it out of him. Being around him was a lot of work. Frustrated, she picked up the skirt of her long satin dress and made her way back to her room. There were guards posted everywhere, both Devereaux and Bouvard; each snapped to attention as she walked by. It made her feel awkward and strange.

  Suzanne was seated in a white brocade chair outside her door. When she saw Izzy, she got to her feet and bowed.

  “I hope it was all right,” she said, twisting her hands. “The Gardien assured me it would be…”

  Puzzled, Izzy opened the door.

  Pat sat in a chair facing the fire. He turned when he heard her come in, got to his feet and faced her. His hair was wet, as if he had been walking bareheaded through the rain.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and she started to go to him. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him. She wanted to thank him for coming back, and tell him that she would never stop loving him. Instead she stood rooted to the floor and waited for him to speak.

  “I’ve been walking for hours. Never made it back to my place.” He looked down at her dress. “Is that for your…ritual?”

  “We haven’t. We didn’t…”

  And then she realized that she and Jean-Marc had done something more intimate than have sex. They had shared a vision. She had merged with him at a deep and profound level, and she wouldn’t be able to explain it to Pat, ever. And she wouldn’t try. It would hurt him too much.

  No. Please, no. I want Pat. I need him.

  Her world shifted. The room tilted. She heard her heartbeat roaring in her veins. It was too fast. Her life was hurtling by like a comet.

  It was all too fast.

  In the flickering firelight, they regarded each other. His sweater clung to his muscular shoulders. He slung his thumbs in his front pockets like the cowboy he was. She kept looking, drinking in the sight of him. Loving him. Wanting him.

  But knowing that, this time, it was she who had to walk away.

  Pat was a seasoned detective, skilled at reading people. After a few seconds, he sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “You have to give me some slack here,” he said. “I’m just a guy, Iz. I didn’t grow up worshipping Stonehenge or whatever it is these people are into.” He smiled dully. “Remember when your father asked me if I was Catholic? Sorry, of course you don’t.”

  He pressed his fingertips against his forehead. His hand was shaking.

  “So say I’m this basic Texan, a fuzzy United Methodist if that, and a guy with a French accent who looks like an eighties’ rock star tells me he’s going to have sex with my girlfriend. Only it’s nothing personal because she has to get her kundalini on and he’s got the once and future mojo that she needs.”

  “Pat—”

  “I interviewed a subject once, told me he had to kill hookers because then his mom would go back in time and he would never be born. He’s doing life in more ways than one.” He looked at her with raw need. “Damn it, Iz. Please.”

  She covered her mouth with her hands. It hurt too much.

  Please, she wailed inside her head. No, I want him, oh please.

  Je suis là, Jean-Marc said inside her head. You’re not alone. I swear it.

  Jean-Marc was lying. She had never felt more alone in her life.

  Je suis là. I won’t abandon you.

  But he would never love her, never sit with her in a hot tub and nuzzle her…

  No, I won’t. I won’t lie to you, Isabelle. That’s not why you’re letting him go. Don’t draw it out. This is torture for him.

  As if he cared.

  “Iz,” Pat whispered, “let me get you out of here.”

  Goodbye. It could have been so wonderful. You and me, a normal life…

  She flooded with numbness. She wasn’t even sure where the floor was. All she saw was the desperate love on his face.

  “I’m part of this now, Pat. All this craziness and chaos and…and you aren’t, honey.” Her voice cracked. “You never will be.”

  “Wrong answer,” he said. “This isn’t you. You’re mixed up.”

  She remained silent. She had the right, the need, to remain silent. She was mixed up, but she had to sort it out. She had to.

  He ran his hands through his hair and dropped them to his sides. He was at a loss. How could she tell him that he hadn’t lost her? She wasn’t his to have. She didn’t know who she was.

  I have nothing to give him.

  And suddenly, despite her intense pain, she felt a strange lightness. She was doing the right thing, and she knew it. That pain, at least, was cut with a dull knife.

  Are you doing that? she asked Jean-Marc in her mind.

  Non. You are.

  The silence stretched between them: a chasm. She thought of his becoming like that unsouled police officer. She could never, ever let that happen to him.

  “It’s kind of…awful,” she said aloud. Her voice cracked as if she hadn’t spoken in a month. “I know I had a million dreams that starred you, but I can’t remember them. I can’t remember any dreams at all.”

  He tried to clear his throat; he sounded as if he were strangling. “You told me some of those dreams. I can lie beside you in the night and tell you what they were.”

  “I don’t think there’s any room in my life for dreaming.” Tears welled. Her throat was so tight she could hardly make a sound.

  “Pat, I have to go…someplace with Jean-Marc. We have to do something. I can’t take you with me. And…and things may have to happen….”

  “You’re going up against Lilliane,” he said. She wondered how he knew. She said nothing.

  He narrowed his eyes. “This whole thing is driving me batshit. Half the time I believe it, half the time I think it’s mass hysteria.”

  “I know the feeling.” Her lower lip was trembling. “I hate this,” she confessed, knowing it was the wrong thing to say. It would give him hope.

  There was another long silence. The fire hissed and spit. Her heart pounded.

  “Okay,” he said at last, lowering his head. “Okay.”

  No. No, don’t listen to me!

  “Thank you,” she said, as calmly as she could.

  “But I’m not leaving. My world’s changed, too, Iz. I’ve been to Stonehenge, and…” He shrugged, silently and mournfully laughed. “I’m a bulldog. Once I’m in, I’m in. I can help you.”

  She gaped at him. “I just said—”

  His voice was soft, his face, kind. “Iz, I know you don’t remember, but we had barely begun to date. You had me over for dinner. We went to the movies. And we went to bed exactly once. Afterward, I found all these little satin bags around my house. Those were magical charms, weren’t they? And you performed sex magic to protect me from the bad guys, right?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  Maybe she wasn’t supposed to remember. She was riveted by the thought. Maybe she had to forget her past altogether, to face her future. Her amnesia might be a form of protection, to keep her focused on what she had to do.

  “We’re going to Haiti to face down my sister and a demon she’s in league with, and you can’t come with,” she said in a rush. “There’s nothing you can do there.”

  “I’ve got street smarts. I’m hell in a firefight.”

  “I’ll worry about you. I’ll be distracted by you.”

  Pat looked stricken. “He can’t love you if he’s willing to put you in danger.”

  “He doesn’t,” she said. “That’s not why we’re going together. We’re going because we have to.”

  “That’s crazy. I don’t believe a word of this.”

  “You don’t have to,” she reminded him gently. She wanted to break down sobbing, but her intuition guided her on. She had to do this. “You’re not watching my back anymore, Pat. I’m on my own.”

  “God.” He wiped his face with his hands and sat back in his chair. He watched the fire for a long time. Her heart beat like a ticking clock.

  The flames crackled. Shadows moved across the mosaic of Jehanne on the floor. Izzy felt the heaviness of her sword on her shoulders.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Pat beat her to it. Scooting back his chair, he stood and faced her again. She saw the fight go completely out of him.

  “Okay, I told you I can do it, and I will. You have some serious tactical problems. Your people are stretched thin and they need someone who can move around in the city.” He raised his chin. “That’s me. Damn it.”

  I don’t deserve you.

  “Thank you, Pat,” she said feelingly. “If you’re sure you can do it—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then I thank you as well,” Jean-Marc said, walking into the room. Pat stiffened, and Jean-Marc extended his hand. “Pardon my eavesdropping. Sometimes I can’t prevent it.”

  Pat grunted.

  “I take no joy in this, Kittrell. But you’re right. We need you. Badly.”

  Pat hesitated, then reached out his hand. The two men shook. Izzy understood what they were doing—burying the hatchet, putting aside their differences—but she was angry. No one had asked how she would feel if Pat stuck around and helped them.

  “I’ll escort you to the war room,” Jean-Marc said. “We’ll outline a role for you. My first thought is that you can run some local recon, see if you can locate any more of Lilliane’s minions. If you’re agreeable, I’ll give you a couple of men. Georges and Maurice. They’re excellent.”

  “That sounds good,” Pat said. “We should check out that vampire. Sange. I don’t trust her.”

  “Moi non plus,” Jean-Marc said. “Me, neither. I know you don’t trust me, either. That’s fine.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we make our plans?”

  Pat hesitated. Izzy knew that once he stepped across the threshold with Jean-Marc, he was fully committed.

  Jean-Marc said, “You need to know that there were people in this safe house who argued for your death, Kittrell. As I said, the world of the Gifted is kept secret from the Ungifted. Especially under the current circumstances.”

  “Oh, my God,” Izzy gasped, covering her mouth.

  “Understood,” Pat replied. “Looks like I bought myself some time.”

  “Looks like you did,” Jean-Marc said with a thin smile.

  Pat stepped across the threshold. Jean-Marc followed.

  As the two men left the room, Izzy sank down on her bed in a morass of emotion—sorrow, relief, desperation. They’d talked about killing Pat. How could she live among people like that?

  Then Jean-Marc’s thoughts came to her:

  How you feel is unimportant. The same for him. It’s time to move on.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” she said aloud.

  No, he replied. It really isn’t.

  Chapter 12

  T he next forty-eight hours raced by in a blur. The safe house went on red alert as Jean-Marc, Michel, Kittrell and the Bouvard and Malchance security forces planned their operation. Kittrell located Sange in an old forgotten graveyard near the Cloisters medieval art museum. She’d moved her nest into an old crypt.

  Without the vampire queen’s knowledge, Kittrell attached some tiny button mics to the walls of the crypt she had moved into and listened in on all her conversations. She received several delegations of vampires offering her a new place to live—in Washington, D.C.; Salem; Paris; and even Portland, Oregon—but if and only if she agreed to merge her nest with theirs.

  “Jean-Marc and Isabelle are really the only game in town. Isn’t that sad?” she asked one of her sirelings, as they fed off a gasping, willing human donor. Word had spread on the net that there was a sexy new vamp nest in town, and vampire wannabes were lining up in droves to offer their living blood. Sange was trying very hard not to kill any of them. That would certainly dry up the supply.

  “Merci,” Jean-Marc told him, as he listened. Sange spent most of her time rutting and feeding. He wondered what the Ungifted man thought of that.

  He made no mention to Kittrell that he had already known where Sange’s lair was, and that in his office, he had a scrying stone that showed the interior of the crypt. He hadn’t told Isabelle, either. Kittrell needed to keep busy and he needed to produce results. That would improve morale among those who wanted him dead.

  He would never tell anyone that he had visited Kittrell’s subconscious mind when the man was lurching through the rain. He Saw the oncoming headlights through the rain, smelled the wet wool of the other pedestrians. He clouded Kittrell’s mind, giving him the illusion that there were no moving cars; the Walk sign shone green and bright.

  Cool as a blue mist, he urged Kittrell to move to the curb. Not to hear the blare of horns and protests of his fellow pedestrians as they became aware that he was getting ready to take a step, just one step…

  And Jean-Marc couldn’t do it. A man who had grown up among poisoners and psychic manipulators, who had watched uncles murder nephews and mothers plot with sons…

  He couldn’t do it. He sent out new thoughts:

  Stop.

  Stay on the curb.

  Turn around.

  Come back here.

  And so here Kittrell had come. Why? Because things would have been far more complicated if someone else had violated the Guardian’s direct orders and killed Pat Kittrell. Bringing him back killed the need to make an end run against the resident Guardian for the good of the group.

  And only because of that.

  Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Machiavelli would have been proud.

  He fed Kittrell a small measure of ease against the romantic pain in his heart. He also made it possible for the Ungifted man to garner some respect as he maintained his op on Sange and ran covert surveillance on the streets surrounding the safe house. It turned out that Kittrell played a mean game of poker, and some of the Gifted voluntarily played blind with him, shielding Kittrell’s thoughts about his cards from themselves. The NYPD cop wiped them out.

  Jean-Marc turned down all offers to play. He didn’t need to bond with Isabelle’s ex-boyfriend. He had to put his Haiti team together. Dom would go, of course. And Lucky. Georges, and Maurice.

  Five of his special ops had returned to Montreal with Christian and Gabriel. It was actually a good thing that Jean-Marc and Isabelle had to leave New York. François was sure to take a shot at him, in some devious, Devereaux way. A moving target was harder to hit.

  “All right, tell us what you saw,” he told Kittrell, as he, Jean-Marc and Alain met in his office. Kittrell had just returned from patrol, and he had bad news.

  “It was a vampire minion,” the detective said, taking a hefty swallow of beer. Pretzels appeared in a bowl at his elbow. He jerked, startled, but helped himself to a handful. “I was in Battery Park just as twilight fell. It leaped from behind a warehouse and attacked a woman. I fought it off and it flew away.”

  “Did it say anything?” Jean-Marc asked. “Do you think it recognized you?”

  “Negative on both counts,” Kittrell replied.

  “You didn’t discharge your weapon,” Alain said warily. Kittrell shook his head. “There would have been so many questions. Especially since you’re a cop.”

  Kittrell ate a pretzel. “No, and I’m a cop who’s about to be declared AWOL. All my leave’s been chewed up. It would be bad if someone started looking for me.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Alain assured him. “Make some calls, plant some suggestions.” He looked hard at Jean-Marc. “I’ll do it before we leave for Haiti.”

  “For the last time, you’re not going. Neither one of you.”

  Alain huffed. “I’m not a baby-sitter. Or a nursemaid.”

  “You’re my trusted lieutenant,” Jean-Marc replied. “This penthouse is our way back. Our retreat. If it’s compromised, we’ll have no place to rest and regroup.”

  Alain’s dreadlocks bounced as he shook his head. “I won’t let you go into battle without me.”

  “You have no choice,” Jean-Marc said. He turned to Kittrell. “Tonight, patrol in Brooklyn, where Isabelle used to live. See if anyone is trying to track her down.”

  “I’m going to Haiti, too,” Kittrell replied.

  Jean-Marc gestured to both his cousin and the detective. “You two and Michel will oversee the safe house and patrol the city.”

  “Michel. I don’t like that guy,” Kittrell grumped.

  “We don’t like Michel, either.” Jean-Marc snapped his fingers and another round of beer appeared on the table. “But the Bouvards who are here are loyal to him, and he can advise you and Alain on Bouvard customs. He’ll cast his runes and say his spells of protection and tell you which fork to use.” He smiled sourly. “In all seriousness, if François drags us into a war, I want as many Flames as possible to think of us as friends.”

 

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