Son of the Shadows

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“Allons,” someone said—one of the soldiers—and Izzy felt movement as people exited the van on the right side. Feeling useless, she cupped the sides of his face with her hands. He felt so cold.

Beside him, flat on his back, Jean-Marc watched her with half-open eyes, and she felt a moment’s awkwardness that she hadn’t done anything for him. If their past was half as complicated as their very short present, it would take some sorting out to see how she felt about him. She opened her mouth to speak to him, but Andre tugged hard on her elbow.

“Chére, we need to get them out of here.”

“Be careful with them,” she pleaded with Andre, then backed out just as lightning zigzagged across the sky and rain poured down as if a dam had broken.

“Hostie,” Andre swore. He held a hand over her head as if it would do any good at all. On boneless legs, she wobbled beside him to a dark-colored station wagon. “Get in the back. It’s safer there.”

She wanted to do something heroic, like insist that she didn’t want to be safe, but of course she did, and of course she knew that she had been expected to help, and had repeatedly failed, that this was happening because of her, but she didn’t know why.

The only thing she could do was not slow them down. So she climbed into the seat behind him and let him shut the door, then scooted to the far side so others could climb in. Craning her neck, she watched to see where they took Pat and Jean-Marc. Dark shapes moved in the darker rain. Lightning threw white light against the scene as a van rolled between her and Andre’s vehicle. There was a little boy sitting in the front, holding a little black stuffed animal.

No. It’s a kitten. It’s my kitten, she thought in a rush. It’s got a name, a funny name. It’s… She held her breath, waiting. Nothing popped into her head.

Then her door opened and Michel slid in, followed by a chisel-faced, dark-headed man in dark blue body armor, with a design in a patch on his biceps. She stared hard at it, trying to make it familiar. It was a tower made of stone. A gauntleted hand extended from it, either reaching for a dove that was flying out of the tower, or releasing it.

“I am Dominique de Devereaux. Jean-Marc called us in, Gardienne,” the man said, inclining his head deferentially. His accent was very thick, very French. “Lucky, Georges and Maurice. None better. I’m sorry we couldn’t get here any sooner.” He flashed her an almost boyish, lopsided grin, a startling bit of sunshine in his hard warrior’s face. “No one will get close to you, now that we’re here.”

“Thank you,” she said, faking a calm response as she wondered who “we” were, and how many. “Merci bien.”

“We have to go,” Michel insisted, pulling a pistol from a holster under his arm and cracking it open. “I have no idea why the ammo in your Medusa carried no magical payload. We’ve got several footlockers of different calibers of ammunition with us now, and everything tests out as fully loaded.”

“That’s good.” Another faked response. She was glad her Medusa hadn’t carried “magical payloads.” From what she understood, if she had shot Caresse with such a bullet, her heart would have stopped instantly.

The front passenger door opened and a dusky-hued woman in a loose-knit sweater and a long skirt sat down, slammed the door and put on her seat belt.

“Bon,” she said, trying to smile at Isabelle. “I’m glad you’re okay, chére. A bad business, this. I hope there’s room in your place in New York for all us Cajuns.”

My place in New York? Isabelle thought, wondering who this woman was and if she was a werewolf, too. “Of course there is,” she replied.

Jean-Marc did not die. He, Pat and the unsouled police officer were carried on stretchers into another van. One of his trusted Shadows lieutenants, Georges, got behind the wheel and took it down unpaved side roads that quickly became muddy gulleys as the rain poured down. Lying on his back with Alain hovering over him, he spoke to his cousin telepathically and the two assessed their situation.

Are the Bouvards among us aware that Isabelle has lost the use of her Gift, and has no memory of anything except Pat Kittrell?

Alain made a Gallic shrug. I don’t know. I don’t think so. But whether they do or not, I don’t like having Michel around. I don’t trust him.

I’ve never liked him, Jean-Marc concurred. He’s by the book, and there’s no book for what is happening here. Since the Middle Ages, our three Houses have maintained clear boundaries. There has never been a child of two Houses before—and of Bouvard and Malchance, of all things. Those two are mortal enemies.

Unlike we Shadows, who have no enemies, Alain observed dryly.

And fewer real friends, Jean-Marc pointed out. I was going to change all that after I became Guardian. I dreamed that I would rein in our manipulating and scheming.

Alain smiled grimly. You might as well have told our entire House to leap off a cliff. That has always been our way. Had he the chance, I’m sure Machiavelli would have chosen to become a Devereaux in a heartbeat.

He would be Malchance, Jean-Marc argued. He had a taint of evil, or so our grandmother said.

And she should know, his cousin replied, since she was his mistress for a time. A beat, and then, Thanks be to the Grey King that you did not die, cousin.

I haven’t forgiven you for what you did to Isabelle, Jean-Marc reminded him.

Better that you never forgive me, than that I did not dare anything and everything to get you back your soul.

A soul that is unclean.

We will remedy that, Alain promised. On this I swear a blood oath.

Jean-Marc lifted his right arm at the elbow. Alain clasped his hand, sealing the bargain. But Jean-Marc was not convinced that they had agreed to the same thing.

Alain, you must temper your loyalty to me. Promise me this. If the darkness overtakes me, and I become dangerous to those around me…to her…that you will end me.

Alain set his jaw and shook his head, his dreadlocks bobbing. You can’t ask that of me. I’ll never do it.

Jean-Marc sighed heavily, frustrated and wary.