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Daughter of the Blood
Nancy Holder
This is your battle, Isabella. Kill him first. Or he will tear down your house.In her old life, Isabella DeMarco lived in New York with her father and had just started to fall for a handsome police lieutenant. Then she learned the truth–she is Gifted, a powerful magic user. In her new world, Jean-Marc des Ombres is the one person Izzy can trust as she claims her birthright–keeping New Orleans and the House of the Flames safe from supernatural enemies. But those enemies will do anything to destroy her. When Jean-Marc is injured, Izzy is caught between fighting off a powerful vampire and opening her House to a potentially treacherous ally. And now the lives of the people she cares about most may be sacrificed for her own….
“Daughter of the Flames by Nancy Holder
has a unique plot that will keep readers
hooked from start to finish.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4½ stars
Jean-Marc stood alone in a shimmering aura of blue light.
His long, wild hair was caught back in a ponytail. His dark eyes blazed. 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.
He gazed down at her. His lips parted and she felt his breath on her forehead. Determined not to betray herself again, she resolutely matched his gaze, raising her chin and tipping back her head. An inch closer, and his mouth would press against hers.
“You can’t be here,” she told him. “You just had major surgery.”
“I heal fast,” he said. “I’m a Gifted.”
“So am I.” And if you had died, I would never have gotten over it.
Dear Reader,
As I write this note, my daughter, Belle, has just finished her third year as a Brownie Girl Scout, and is now a Junior Girl Scout. To mark the occasion, our service unit put on an elaborate bridging ceremony. I watched my daughter eagerly cross a small wooden bridge—Brownie on one side, Junior on the other—with wistfulness and pride. I, too, have crossed many bridges in my life. Some I burned (!) and some I tripped merrily across. But to be honest, I didn’t want to cross a lot of them. I wanted to stay where I was, where I felt safe.
In Daughter of the Blood, Isabella DeMarco must cross a bridge from her old life to her new one. I hope that as you read about her journey, you’ll remember that you, too, have taken that scary first step many times. That makes you a true heroine in my book. In nearly every instance, once I’m across I’m glad I did it. But sometimes that first step requires a tremendous act of faith. Please write me about your own courageous crossings at www.nancyholder.com, and visit me at bombshellauthors.com.
Be bold!
Nancy Holder
Daughter of the Blood
Nancy Holder
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NANCY HOLDER
is a bestselling author of nearly eighty books and two hundred short stories. She has received four Bram Stoker Awards from the Horror Writers Association, and her books have been translated into two dozen languages. A former ballet dancer, she has lived all over the world and currently resides in San Diego, California, with her daughter, Belle. She would love to hear from readers at www.nancyholder.com.
In memory of Jehanne D’Arc, the Maid of Orleans,
valiant warrior and commander.
To my Gifted daughter, Belle,
bridge-crosser par excellence.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgments:
With sincere thanks to the Silhouette Bombshell team: Tara Parsons, Natashya Wilson, Charles Griemsman and my acquiring editor, Julie Barrett. To all the terrifically talented, bright and courageous Bombards, my deep appreciation and gratitude for all the support, advice and friendship. Deepest thanks to my agent and friend, Howard Morhaim, who has guided my career and fed me well, and his assistant, Katie; and to my most excellent Webmaster and fellow soldier, Sam Devol. Also to Persephone, buffybuds, litvamp, SF-FWs, bryantstreet, novelscribes and JoysofResearch, especially Pat MacEwen, Val and Gerald. To Karen Hackett, Linda Wilcox, Christie Holt, Ashley McConnell, Leslie Jones Ackel, Elise Jones, Sandra Morehouse, Richard Wilkinson, Skylah Wilkinson, Wayne Holder, Anny Caya, Lucy Walker, Kym Rademacher, Susi Frant, Terri Yates, Monica Elrod, Barbara Nierman, Margie Morel and Steve Perry. Deepest thanks to Susan Wiggs and Gillian Horvath. And a deep bow to Andy Thompson and everyone at Family Karate, especially our dear friends Haley and Amy Schricker.
As a grateful citizen, I thank NYPD detective Edward Conlon, author of Blue Blood; and NYPD police officer Chris Florens, who wore the flower my daughter gave him behind his ear, and let her wear his hat. Last but certainly not least, my heartfelt thanks to Special Agent Jeff Thurman, not only for his friendship, but for the many years of hard work he has put into making this world a safer place. REV, o makunda o makunde.
Chapter 1
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.
