Son of the shadows, p.17
Son Of The Shadows, page 17
part #3 of The Gifted Series
“Haiti,” Kittrell insisted.
“Haiti,” Alain added.
“New York,” Jean-Marc replied.
Jean-Marc was worried. The operation was moving forward, but he had no clear-cut plan to take down Lilliane and Le Devourer. So far, he had brute force in the form of Ungifted weapons and magic spells and a well-trained elite ops team, but he had no actual mission.
We can’t just land on the island, guns blazing, and kill them.
He went deep within himself, searching for answers. Nothing came. He danced spells, meditated and prayed. After belittling Michel to Alain and Kittrell, he humbled himself and asked him to cast the runes. Michel had no answers for him, either.
He moved on to basic archival research. He walked the stacks of the library with his hand extended, remaining open to the call of the right volume.
He started with a biography of Joan of Arc. There was an eyewitness account that stated that on the night before her execution: “Ye Moone was blotted out by Daemon’s wings.”
Maybe Jehanne herself had been tempted to call forth a demon to save her life. But a quick check of facts revealed that the blotting out of the moon was in fact a lunar eclipse. He was intrigued. Gifted drew their power from the moon. If there had been an eclipse, she would have been weaker than normal. Add to that that she’d been tortured, starved and malnourished, and she’d have been at her lowest point.
But that was the same night she transferred her power to Antigone, Duchesse de Bouvard, creating a legacy of power that moved from Bouvard mother to Bouvard daughter down through the centuries, until it had deserted Isabelle. How had Jehanne managed such a monumental magical feat, if she was in a weakened condition?
Setting aside the book, he rose from his chair and walked the perimeter of the octagonal room again. His hand extended, he demanded that any volume that would be helpful to him make itself known.
There.
It was a thin book, one he didn’t recognize—yet he had stocked the library himself. It was bound in bleached animal hide, and there was no writing on the outside. But when he flipped it open, he caught his breath.
Une Histoire de la Maison des Flammes, he read. A History of the House of the Flames. The author was Antigone de Bouvard—the duchess who had received power from Jehanne before she died.
He couldn’t believe it. The actual account of the founding of the House of the Flames?
The hair on the back of his neck rose. He had seen wonders and horrors in his day, but to find this book…it would be the same as an Ungifted discovering evidence of his own beginnings—Adam and Eve’s birth certificates, the first Torah…
How could I not know this was here? he thought suspiciously. He flipped the pages, trying to detect a fraud. Then he carried it into the altar room. He lit the white candle on the altar and bowed to the statue of Jehanne.
“Mademoiselle la Patronesse,” he began, holding out the book. “If by your magic this book has arrived to help us…”
There was no response. He lit the blue candle of his patron.
“I entreat you. If you can tell me about this book…”
Nothing.
He sat down on the floor and read the medieval French as easily as if it were current French. All Devereauxes could read several dozen forms of their native language.
It was this way, as I sat with Jehanne in her cell. She told me that her voices had given her the power to fight for the cause of justice, and that as she was now about to die, she had no need of it.
“Would that I had it!” I cried. “I would seek justice for all in your name!”
At those words, her face glowed, and she dropped to her knees and prayed.
“So be it,” she said to me. “If you swear to be true to those in need, my voices will accomplish it.”
Like many of our family, I originally believed that she had been touched by God Himself to save France from the English. But as she had now been captured, and faced death, I had to admit that my faith wavered. I had dared the wrath of my husband, the Duc de Bouvard, to sit with the poor maid until her death. No one was allowed to see her, but I had bribed her jailers. I vowed to keep vigil. Not because I believed any longer that she had been touched by the divine, but because she was alone, and friendless.
“I swear to seek justice in your name,” I promised her. For there was no lie in what I said.
Her joy was boundless! She laughed and clapped her hands together, and showered me with kisses. Then she showed me a cross she had hidden among her clothes. It was a lady’s cross, delicately fashioned of gold. I was astonished that her greedy jailers had not stolen it.
Then she cracked it open—I was horrified, thinking it a blasphemous act to break the symbol of our Lord! I well remembered she had been convicted of heresy, and I immediately became frightened for my own soul.
But from inside the cross, something fell into her hand. There were several white grains—at first I took them to be bits of stone—and she sprinkled them over me. I smelled lavender. Then she began to recite words to me.
She prayed for what seemed like hours. I wrote down the prayer as she spoke it.
Jean-Marc stopped reading and riffled the pages, skimming in search of the prayer. There was nothing. Maybe it was encoded in the writing itself. He went back to reading where he’d left off.
Outside the window, as the dawn approached, they prepared her funeral pyre. They piled log upon log until the stack nearly touched heaven. The Duc de Malchance arrived, bringing brandy for the workers, laughing and boasting about the rich reward he had been given for her capture.
Jehanne stopped praying. Her fists, clenched together, grew bloodless. She raised her face and I saw the most terrible expression of hatred blazing across her features. She was in a fury, and it was as if the fires of hell itself burned in her eyes.
“My betrayer,” she murmured. “Damn him for his evil deeds. Punish him.”
“God surely will,” I told her, alarmed at the change in her. She seemed possessed, and I was afraid.
“I call upon thee, my voices,” she murmured. “I call you to drag that filthy soul down to hell!”
Outside the window, the moon winked out. That is the only way I can describe it. I smelled the stench of death, or worse; I heard men screaming. And though I wanted to look away, I hurried to the barred window and gazed out. Beneath icy starlight, something enormous hulked beside the funeral pyre. It was as huge as a catapult, and covered with shiny, leathery skin like a snake. Its eyes glowed pure red, and it had a snout like a bat. Horns rose from the sides of its head and smoke ushered from rows of fangs in its mouth.
It lowered its head over the Duc de Malchance, resplendent in his ermine furs. The duke fell to his knees, screaming.
“Take him!” Jehanne whispered fiercely. “Demon, I charge thee to eat his soul!”
“Non,” you cannot wish that,” I abjured her. “You are a saintly maid, a daughter of God and of the church! Jehanne, do not do this!”
I grabbed at her and clung to her, falling to my knees, begging her not to damn herself before God and her Savior in this way.
“Would you have him burn me instead?” she demanded, gripping the bars as the huge mouth opened to devour Malchance. “Would your rather I writhe in agony, burning in the fire, as punishment for sins I did not commit?”
“Oui!” I cried. “For the sake of your soul! I would! Oh, blessed Daughter of the Flames, deny it! Send it away!”
“Oh, my God, my God,” she whispered, shaking and weeping, “then take this cup from me. Never tempt me thus again!”
In an instant, the demon disappeared in a cloud of foul odor. The Duc de Malchance swooned and the servants of the church, who had hidden, emerged and revived him.
“She did it!” he shrieked, and pointed to the window, shouting that sure this was proof that Jehanne was the Devil’s own and must be burnt at once!
And so they came for her, in a mob, and in that short moment before they took her away, I received the Kiss of Fire.”
He heard the door open.
Isabelle was wearing the warm white cashmere robe he had purchased for her. The matching slippers were on her feet.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
His body warmed at the sight of her. Her hair was tousled over her shoulders. The robe caressed her slender curves.
“Did a voice bring you here?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. What are you reading?”
He held the book out to her, waiting to see if she could read the French. She glanced at it, then shook her head. Her command of French came and went. He wasn’t surprised, given her scrambled memory.
“This was written by the first Daughter of the Flames,” he said. “She speaks of a prayer Jehanne recited the night before she died. Then she received the Kiss of Fire, and her Gift.”
Isabelle gazed at the book. He handed it to her, and she turned it over in her hands. She trembled. Her knees buckled and he shot out a hand to steady her. She acknowledged his gesture with a nod, her attention riveted by the book.
“Where did you find this?” she asked him, running her hand along the cover. Then she flipped it open, her eyes searching the page. “Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
“It wasn’t here before.”
“Jehanne,” she whispered, sinking to her knees in front of the altar “Please tell us about this book.”
“Tell us about the prayer,” Jean-Marc added, sinking down beside her. He took her hand in his and lowered his head. “If you can speak the prayer, Patroness, and return Isabelle’s power to her, I beg you to do it.”
They waited. The candles flickered. After a time, they burned down, casting the pair in darkness.
Lavender-scented white mist rose from the floor.
The grains in the cross smelled like lavender, Jean-Marc recalled. Was it some concentrated form of mist?
“Ask her to come to you,” Jean-Marc urged Isabelle.
“Jehanne, je vous en prie,” she began. “Please, please help us. Tell me the words of the prayer.”
He joined her. “Jehanne, Patronesse, je vous en prie.”
They knelt side by side, waiting. Isabelle’s nearness distracted him, tantalized him. In any other circumstance, he and his fellow supplicant would disrobe and perform sex magic. They needed that boost right now. They were on the verge of discovery; they needed an edge, a secret weapon. He hadn’t found this book by accident.
“Isabelle,” he began. “We must…”
Don’t ask her. Force her. Show her who is the master here.
The darkness surged and rolled inside him. He felt it, icy, burning, freezing, boiling. His blood rose; his penis stiffened. He was in this fix because of her. The world was falling apart because of her. And he thought he had to grovel like some underling so as not to offend her ignorant, narrow-minded prudery?
She ought to be grateful you even want to screw her. She has no idea how to reciprocate and give you any pleasure at all! It’s always that way with her—take, argue, risk your life, argue some more…look how she emasculated that Ungifted man. Threw him out of her bed like a bothersome cat.
He balled his fists. A hand over her mouth, then a takedown. He was a skilled martial artist. He could subdue her in five seconds. And once it was done, and they had some results, she would understand why it was necessary. No doubt she would thank him for it.
Just do it. Who cares if she understands? She’ll love it. Sex with a Guardian. How many Gifted Devereaux women would give years of their lives to get in bed with you?
She sighed beside him, her warm breath caressing the back of his hand. His penis strained against his black trousers. Her robe gaped open; he saw the swell of her round breasts, her nipples tautening. It would be a simple thing, to slide his hand into her robe and fill that hand with her softness…seduce her, mesmerize her.
They were dealing with life and death. If a little forced seduction got him what they needed…why hesitate?
Forget all that. Just take her. Rape her. Have her now.
No. The word echoed through his head, his rib cage, his bones. His nerve endings said no. The air in his lungs.
Do not.
He shuddered as if someone had thrown him naked in an icy river. He saw himself having sex with her, and she was burning, on fire, set ablaze by his touch. Screaming. Her face melting.
Stay away.
Every fiber of his being told him what he must not do. He mustn’t have sex with her. It would be the exact wrong thing…
She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. He lost himself, fell into her frightened-doe expression. Waves of instinctual protectiveness washed over him, around him. He couldn’t breathe.
“I need to work alone,” he said. “Since nothing’s happening, I’ll try another tack.”
“Or maybe I should pray in here by myself,” she murmured. She sounded almost disappointed.
“That’s a good idea.” Shaking, he got to his feet and reached for the book, but she gently picked it up.
By the moon, how I want you, he thought, as he left the room.
He bypassed the library and went straight to his quarters, where he took a long, cold shower. He pressed his body against the chilly tile and breathed in slowly, breathed out.
If we had moved forward with the ritual, who knows what would have happened? Thank the Grey King for Kittrell, breaking the chain of events.
He crawled into bed naked, grunting when he lay on something hard. Assuming it was one of Bijou’s toys, he reached behind himself and plucked it off the mattress.
It was a battered piece of copper-tinted gold shaped into a crosshatch.
Or the fragment of a broken gold cross, he thought excitedly. He tipped it upside down.
A voice flowed out of it.
“Go to Haiti,” it said. “Don’t delay. I will give you a weapon.”
He closed his fist over the cross and brought it against his chest.
“Oui, j’irai avec elle,” he vowed. I will go with her.
He climbed back out of bed to show Isabelle. He drew on a dark blue robe, placing the cross in his pocket. Then white mist surrounded him, enveloped him; his eyes started to close. His strength ebbed, and he sank slowly to the lush bedroom carpet.
He dreamed. There was blood in the center of her chest, spreading like a red rose over her white gown; there was blood and she was dying; and it was exactly what had to happen. She must die a martyr’s death. Like her saint.
She must die.
In the morning, he jerked awake on the floor. He tried to remember his dream, and couldn’t. There was no cross in his pocket. He searched the carpet, and the bedclothes, stripping the bed, casting spells. He looked hard at Bijou.
“Did you take it?” he asked the kitten. In answer, Bijou mewed and licked a paw.
He rushed to the altar room. The candles were out, and in the darkness, Isabelle was asleep on the floor. Her back was to him, and her black hair fanned out behind her like a war pennant.
“Isabelle?” he whispered. He created a sphere of light and took a step closer. Something glinted beside her on the floor.
His heart skipped beats. He stopped breathing.
She was curled around a medieval broadsword. Words in Latin were etched around the edge of the blade.
Let it be the answer, he thought, as he gently shook her awake.
“Isabelle,” he whispered, touching her shoulder.
She jerked awake and gazed up at his face. Then she looked down at the sword and caught her breath. She grabbed it up by the hilt and tried to lift it, then slid her other hand around it and managed to raise it a couple of inches off the floor.
He supported it with a hand beneath the flat of the blade and brought it closer to their faces. He increased the intensity of the ball of light and made out the words.
“Who holds this sword is beloved,” he translated into English.
Isabelle gazed from the sword to him and back again. “The beloved of Jehanne?” she asked him. “Her name isn’t on the blade. When I saw it in my vision, Jehanne ran right down the middle.”
“It’s not there now,” he confirmed, disquieted.
“Is there more? Is the prayer on there?”
“Maybe that is the prayer,” he replied. Just in case, he spoke it aloud in Latin and several variants of French. He kept contact with his fingers, then slid his forefinger along the razor-sharp blade, in case the spell required a sacrifice to work. All magic cost something. The price varied. But nothing happened as the droplets tapped rhythmically onto the steel.
“You know the story of the Trojan horse,” he said. “The Greeks wanted into Troy. They built a huge wooden horse and offered it to the Trojans as a gift. But it was filled with Greek warriors, who slaughtered the Trojans as soon as it was wheeled into the city.
“But it looks like her sword,” Isabelle argued.
“Where is her name?” Jean-Marc persisted.
“Maybe it’s not her sword anymore,” she replied. “Maybe it’s mine.”
Chapter 13
T hey were leaving for Haiti. The elevator doors opened and closed as Jean-Marc’s men carried supplies into the parking garage: Ammunition. New body armor—dark blue for the House of the Shadows, and black for the House of the Flames. Food and money. Crystals, herbs, athames and spell books. Antigone’s book, and the sword.
She had on a black sweater and olive parachute pants, and a new kind of body armor. Since she didn’t remember wearing body armor before, Jean-Marc’s careful explanation about how it was different from Kevlar was lost on her.
A shoulder holster held her Medusa, loaded with the same magical 9 mm rounds that could stop hearts. A footlocker in the back of the Hummer carried additional caliber ammo loaded with spells to create dampening fields, cause explosions and stop hearts.
