Son of the Shadows

Jean-Marc threw back his head and howled to the wolf pack. Come to me. Come now. His voice was packed with the urgency of one dying. I need help.

“Let me down,” she insisted, pushing on his hands. “You shouldn’t be carrying me.”

As his mind began to shut down, he couldn’t speak with words anymore. He didn’t know how to tell her that his hands were spasming and he couldn’t let go.

He lumbered past two live oaks, pushing through the streamers of Spanish moss swathed between their trunks as if the tree on the right were choking the life out of the tree on the left. Their leafy canopies shook as if with their own death throes. He pushed past them, staggering, and groaned aloud as silvery moonlight highlighted Isabelle’s dark cascades of curls.

“Jean-Marc!” she insisted, scrabbling out of his embrace, grabbing his arm to keep him upright as he contracted from the pain. He felt his protesting heartbeat, and he wove a spell of strength around himself as best he could.

My patron, the Grey King, I call on you, he thought. Save me, and I will be a faithful son. I will do whatever you ask. At least, keep me alive until I get her out of here.

He felt something move inside his being, a presence, a force, and he knew it was the Grey King. All faithful Devereauxes revered their patron, who was himself a demon. Those with strong Gifts, like Jean-Marc and Alain, were able to call on him directly. Hours before, the Grey King had appeared in the bayou and destroyed the demon Izzy had called—a fierce, fanged female creature with glowing, almond-shaped eyes and necklaces of skulls around her neck.

There will be a price, the Grey King informed Jean-Marc. A high one.

I will pay it gladly, Jean-Marc replied, if it keeps her safe.

Then it is done.

The presence receded, and Jean-Marc felt a solitary moment of fear. His patron was just, but he could also be merciless. Sometimes he moved in ways Jean-Marc couldn’t understand.

Yet, in the clearing, he saw a miracle: the werewolves’ crazy, black Cajun van. The passenger panel was slid back, revealing the garish interior studded with voodoo jujus of silver and brass, the strings of chicken’s feet and glittering mirrors and ankhs. And more wonderful, the Femme Blanche Andre had brought to heal Caresse poked her head out of the van. She took one look at Jean-Marc and hopped out, racing toward him. Another Femme Blanche peered out at them but remained inside the vehicle. So they had two. Magnifique.

I thank you, my patron, he thought, even though, of course, the patroness of the House of the Flames was Joan of Arc, and these women were her acolytes. He might have more properly thanked her, but he didn’t. He was certain that his patron had brought the van to him.

The window on the driver’s side rolled down, revealing Andre, now dressed in a plaid shirt. He threw open the door and leaped out, racing toward Isabelle and Jean-Marc, reaching out his arms.

“You’ve been hit. Denise, vite!” he bellowed.

“I’m coming,” said the Femme Blanche, unable to keep pace with the burly Cajun werewolf. “Sir, give the Gardienne to Andre.”

“We’ve got three Femmes Blanches now. They saved Caresse,” Andre said, jerking his head toward the Femme Blanche named Denise. “They can spare some time for you. Lucienne! Sara! Come now! Ils sont Jean-Marc de Devereaux et la Gardienne!”

“Bon,” Jean-Marc said, relieved to his soul that Caresse was better. Then his legs gave way as the ground rushed up.

It would be a relief to die—he hurt so badly—but he heard Isabelle cry out, “Take care of him. Then have someone come with me. I’m going back for…for…him!”

Jean-Marc’s mind was fragmenting; the kaleidoscope bits shattered and reformed into the face of Pat Kittrell. Leave him there, he thought, jealous rage mingling with battle-hardened common sense. I won’t risk your life for his.

“Her lover,” Jean-Marc gasped. “You know, that man from New York. The detective. Also, there are Bouvards loyal to her. Michel is with us. They should be found.”

With Isabelle in his arms, Andre turned to the Femme Blanche. “Goddamn it, fix him!” he shouted. “Alain!” He looked past Jean-Marc. “We gotta find la jolie’s boyfriend.”

“The Bouvard special ops are circling back to get some vehicles,” Alain reported. His voice dropped as he came around, staring in horror at Jean-Marc. “Mon cousin, what has happened?”

Then the two cousins spoke telepathically, which was a blessing, because Jean-Mark could no longer make his mouth work.

Je regret. I couldn’t stop myself from attacking you. I have been poisoned. I’m going to die with filth in my soul. I’ll go to a place where I can harm no one…

With a gasp, Alain slung his arm under Jean-Marc’s and half carried him toward the van.

Non, he protested. You will not die, Jean-Marc. You cannot die, and especially not in this condition.

The Femme Blanche named Denise approached and dropped her veil over her face. She raised her hand, glowing with white healing energy, and placed it directly over Jean-Marc’s wound. Fire as from a white-hot poker blazed from her palm into the ravaged sinews of his bicep, searing down to the bone; he hissed and doubled over. His cousin lowered him to the ground as Denise knelt, steadfastly poured healing magic into his body.

“Let it happen, let it be,” she murmured aloud to him in French. He knew it took her supreme effort to speak while she was working and he dipped his head, the closest he could come to a nod.

The second Femme Blanche from the van joined them, placing her palm over her sister’s. Then a third. Jean-Marc detected no change in his death throes. Perhaps he was too far gone, even for Bouvard healing magic.

“You have to find him.” Isabelle’s voice carried over the pain and a fresh round of mortar fire. “I won’t leave without him.”

His drowning heart sank; he was dying, but her thoughts were of Pat. Jean-Marc tried to tell himself that she probably didn’t realize how little time he had left. Magical wounds often appeared less severe than they actually were.

Or perhaps because her memory was gone and her Gift was dormant—her magical power can’t be gone; that is impossible—she no longer felt the incredible electricity between them. As his body began to quit, he could feel her, sense her, practically taste her. He almost managed a chuckle as his shaft hardened in response to her. I’m a dog, he thought wryly.

I’m a man.

A shrill whistling thrummed through his bones—incoming!—and he signaled to Andre to get Isabelle to the van. He was nearly blind now, as death came, but he could see her arms and legs flailing as Andre carried her around to the other side of the van. Then he lost sight of her as the Femmes Blanches intensified their magic and Alain chanted in the Old Language beneath his breath, praying to the patron of the House of the Shadows, the Grey King, to care for his devoted son.

He almost blacked out; nearly came to. Shadows wove around him as Alain eased him into the panel van. It was bulging to capacity—battle gear, wafting white robes, sweat, blood, dirt. And the sharp musk of werewolves, changed back to human, but with their natures wrapped around them like invisible pelts.

As soon as Andre gunned the engine and the vehicle roared into motion, a magical burst slammed into the ground where it had sat, rocking the chassis back and forth on its wheels. Two seconds later, and it would have landed squarely on top of the van.

Jean-Marc concentrated on Alain’s voice as his cousin magically willed him to live. He heard Andre arguing with someone over the roar of the battle and the engine. It was Isabelle, who was screaming at him to get Pat.

“It’s too dangerous, chérie,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“If it was someone you loved…” she retorted, obviously not thinking clearly. Because it had been Caresse, and she herself had not only shot her, but refused to help her in favor of Pat. Jean-Marc inhaled the scent of werewolf musk and Caresse’s spicy perfume, knowing she was nearby in the van. He tried to lift his head to find her, see how she was doing. He tried to send out healing thoughts, but that was not his Gift.

“Shh, don’t move,” Alain insisted. And then in thought, Are you in much pain? Alain ticked a worried glance at the veiled Femmes Blanches seated on the floor beside Jean-Marc. They had all lowered their veils to keep out distractions as they worked on him. The palm of the one closest was pressed against his shoulder, cauterizing his wound, or so it seemed to Jean-Marc. If anything, the pain intensified. But he had been trained from birth to be the master of his behavior, and so he forbade himself to writhe or cry out. What she did, she did to heal him.

Without answering, Jean-Marc slid his gaze down his body, finding the second Femme Blanche at his side and the third crouched at his feet, knees pressed against her chest beneath her dress. The three women were holding hands, transferring healing energy like a conduit through themselves to him.

“Caresse,” he whispered. “New Orleans PD. Unsouled.”

“She is stable. We have him. It is your turn,” Alain said.

The van bounded and bounced along, all the shiny metal objects shimmying and shaking. The Femme Blanche held on tight to his shoulder, grinding her fingertips painfully into torn muscles as if for purchase; he doubted she realized what she was doing.

A thunderous roar like a sonic boom jerked him out of his languor. The vehicle rocked hard to the right, sending everyone sliding, including Alain, the Femme Blanches and him. Next it ground to a halt and the panel door slid back. The noise outside was deafening.

He tried to sit up. With a fierce expletive, Alain held him down; then he saw a flash of facial features as three uniformed Bouvard special ops carried Pat Kittrell between them. Pat’s head was thrown back, his mouth was slack, the flesh of his silhouetted face gray and mottled. He looked as if he had been dead for a week.

They handed him in, other figures scrambling to help. The panel slammed shut. In the front seat, Isabelle called out to him. Jean-Marc dimly heard the sounds of movement and arguing: she was trying to climb over her seat to Pat.

Pat was laid down beside Jean-Marc. Jean-Marc turned his head and studied the brave man who had flown blind into this hell storm for love of his woman. Jean-Marc willed him to live.

Non, Alain told him telepathically. Stop exerting yourself. And then, Sleep.

I have to protect her, Jean-Marc replied. And he is part of her. It was so much easier to communicate without speaking. I have to…not sleep…I have to keep him from dying….

You have to not die yourself, Alain retorted. Or I’ll have risked your wrath for nothing.

I’ll take my wrath to the grave, Jean-Marc promised him, and use it to haunt you forever. I will never forgive you for what you did.

Alain grunted. And yet, I would do it again. Such is the nature of my loyalty, and my love for you, cousin. You would do the same, would you not? For Isabelle?

Chapter 4

Seated beside Izzy in the van, Andre answered his cell phone and spoke in a strangely accented, rapid-fire version of French that Izzy could barely understand. But she got the drift: They were in trouble.

She peered through the windshield. After dodging explosions, enemy forces with rocket launchers, grenades and submachine gunfire, they had met up with several Humvees and white vans emblazoned with the three flames. Now the parade screamed without headlights through ebony rain on an obsidian highway, out of New Orleans.

Andre disconnected and set down his phone. “Alain,” he called, “that was Michel. We need to get off the main road. The bad guys have choppers in the air.”

“D’accord,” Alain replied. “I’ve warded the van, but you never know.”

“Helicopters?” Izzy leaned forward and craned her neck to see up. Streaks of pastel melted the darkness, signaling the approach of dawn.

“Oui,” Andre grunted. “That may mean air-to-ground rocket launchers. The sun will rise soon. At least there won’t be any vampires coming after us.” He crossed himself and kissed his thumb.

Her stomach twisted as she studied him, trying to see if he was joking. Rocket launchers and vampires? What kind of world was this?

“Bon,” Alain replied. “Can you get us other cars? We’ll ditch these.”

“Already done,” Andre said. He smiled grimly. “We Cajuns got a lot of cousins, us. The cars won’t be as nice. But they’ll be harder to track.” He turned to Izzy and gestured to the glove compartment. Comprehending, she opened it.

“There’s a big wooden box. Remember that juju I gave you? There’s more in there. We’ll take those and hand them out to our people. Should have done it before.”

She didn’t remember the juju he gave her. She didn’t even know what it was. Flipping open the glove compartment, she found the box and opened it. Strings of bird claws, tiny blue bags and silver charms lay heaped inside. She tried not to let her disgust show as she picked up a string of claws and dangled it in front of her face. Sensing his eyes on her, she draped it over her shoulders.

She turned to him. “I’m sorry,” she said thickly. “I didn’t mean to shoot her. And…and that I wouldn’t let anyone help her until I got what I wanted.”

The burly man leaned over and patted her chilly hands. “D’accord,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Me? But how can you forgive me so easily?”

His eyes crinkled with real affection. “Because I know you. I know that you poor Gifted have all kinds of problems. You’ll come back to us. Then we’ll kick some Malchance ass and have a fais-dodo. Now pass out the mojo, chére. Everybody needs help.”

Izzy began to sort out the coils of charms and claws. She handed one to Andre, who grunted and pulled a string of claws and silver charms from inside his plaid shirt, showing that he was already taken care of. Then he looked in the rearview mirror.

“Alain, I’m turning off the road, going for the trees. Cars are waiting for us already.” He took a breath. “How is my bebe? You hold onto her, oui?”

“She’s better and better,” Alain replied. “The Femmes Blanches have worked good magic for her, mon ami.”

“Merci, merci bien, mes jolies,” Andre said. He raised a bushy brow at Izzy and she saw a tear sparkling in his lower eyelashes. “You see? It’s gonna be okay. Now pass them things out. We gotta hurry, us.”

She was grateful to have something to do as she handed the necklaces one at a time to Alain, who took them from her and draped one each over Jean-Marc, Caresse and Pat. Three more for the Femmes Blanches and three for the soldiers. There was no room to move in the back; everyone was wedged in like victims of a shipwreck in a lifeboat.

Adrenaline was pumping through her body like a river. She had a wild moment where she considered bolting from the van and running away, but she knew how irrational that was. And of course she would never desert Pat. But vampires? Demons? Juju? Mojo? Words from horror movies, not real life. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear the rhythm.

Andre’s cell phone rang again. He grabbed it, grunted and said, “Oui.” After he hung up, he yelled, “Okay, this is it!”

A second later he downshifted, swung sharply to the right and the van left the road. After they breached the roadside berm of dirt and vegetation, they tilted sharply downward. The low beams revealed branches rushing up as he kept his foot on the gas and his hands on the wheel. She heard the whum-whum-whum of a helicopter. He swore in French and turned off the headlights. She held onto the armrest and the dash, holding her breath.

Then the van slammed hard into what had to be the trunk of a tree, throwing her forward against her shoulder strap, and Andre immediately killed the engine.

“Merde! Everyone good?” Andre called.

“We’re good,” Alain reported. “The wounded are stable.”

“Vite, vite,” Andre said. Movement filled the compartment behind them. “You wait, I’ll help you out,” he told Izzy.

She gave her head a shake and tried the door handle. It opened and she hopped out onto hardpacked earth. Several low-slung, rusty sedans, minivans and station wagons wheezed beneath a stand of live oaks trees, exhaust puffing from their tailpipes. A van lumbered up, followed closely behind by a pickup truck embellished with a gun rack.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered, as a rangy man wearing a baseball cap and a jean jacket popped out of the nearest car. But that wasn’t her immediate concern. She had to see how Pat was doing. She knew he had been in her life before all the madness. He was the only normal person here, and he had come for her. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.

She circled around to the left-hand side, pulled open the panel and looked down at Pat. His face was gray and slack.

His chest isn’t rising, she thought in a flurry of panic.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she whispered automatically, placing a hand reverently on his forehead. So I’m Catholic, she thought. “Blessed art though among women.”

The other passengers stirred as if she had said something very odd. Then her mind filled with the image of the medieval woman with the short dark hair. Deep emotion gripped her hard, as if someone had gathered up her heart and given it a squeeze. She touched her chest as she missed not one but several beats. Then the sensation passed.

And she could no longer remember the words of the prayer.

Anxiously she licked her lips and put both her hands on Pat’s forehead. The van boiled with tension; the others were watching, waiting to see if she had the power to help him. She closed her eyes, willing herself to have that power. But as before, with Jean-Marc, she felt nothing.

“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.

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