The Gifted
Jean-Marc whipped around, whirling her behind him like a rag doll as Andre erupted into an eardrum-shattering barrage of howls. His face began to lengthen; his eyes, to glow golden and fierce. His backbone popped through his skin as glossy, silvery-black fur sprouted in tufts along his face, his chest, his abdomen, his thighs. His fingernails stretched into claws.
Weaving and transforming, he lurched toward Jean-Marc and her. Where a man had stood, a hunched, demonic creature covered with glossy black fur roared at her and clacked the air with its elongating jaw.
Jean-Marc remained in front of her as deep indigo surrounded her. She looked through it, as if it were a veil draped in front of her face; then wisps of black drifted across her field of vision, like tattered lace or lazing smoke. Her ears buzzed; her skin burned and tingled as if she had fallen into a snowbank. Acid flooded her mouth. Rigid with fear, she stiffened and stumbled backward.
Hide, stay away, a voice whispered urgently.
She knew she mustn’t let the blackness touch her. And yet something from deep within her urged her forward, tempted her to reach out her hand to it, let it taste of her, caress her…
It will feel wonderful, said a different voice, with velvety softness overlaid with lush desire. There is nothing in this world that compares with it…let it have you….
The tendril of black hovered at eye level between her and Jean-Marc’s back; it turned itself toward her, revealing itself: it was an ebony serpent with glittering, jet-black eyes that blinked at her as it pulled back on itself, eyes gleaming, as if to strike—
Yessssss, you are ssssomewhere near, Isssssssssabelle…
She caught her breath and leaped backward, half falling out of the indigo as energy sizzled over her shoulders and the back of her head like steam. She had moved out of the bubble. The black snake struck, smacking against the blue barrier, and vanished with a hiss.
Blinking her eyes rapidly, she watched as Jean-Marc pointed the Medusa straight into the air, telegraphing that he had it, but was not going to immediately use it. Ten feet away, the creature that had been Andre wagged its enormous head back and forth, as if in refusal. It took another lurching step forward. Its growl vibrated through Izzy’s boots.
“Andre, c’est moi,” Jean-Marc said in French. Then he himself growled, the implied threat laid over a warning. The werewolf answered, deep and angry, lowering its head as it stared at the woman lying in blood on the ground.
“Jean-Marc is trying to remind him that you didn’t mean to hurt her,” Alain translated. “And that she needs healing magic now, or she will die.”
So she’s not dead, Izzy thought with relief.
“I didn’t mean to shoot her,” she told him. “I know her, don’t I? I know all of you.” She ticked her head toward the werewolf, although she was too frightened to look directly at it. “I know him.”
“Andre has risked his life to save yours more than once,” Alain replied. “He promised to watch out for you, always. My cousin is reminding him of that now.”
“I don’t remember,” she whispered, her mouth as dry as dust. Who would want to remember any of this?
Jean-Marc kept speaking to the werewolf, even, calm, firm. Alain moved his hands over the bleeding woman, never taking his eyes off the scene as it played out before him.
“Jean-Marc, I am at a loss. We need Bouvard magic.” Alain shifted his dark eyes to Izzy. “Can you not help?”
“Non, she cannot, thanks to you,” Jean-Marc replied bitterly. “Maybe I can.”
He lowered the revolver to his side as he strode past the towering werewolf, which watched every move and kept growling, hunkering down slightly as if it were about to pounce. Jean-Marc ignored it, although Izzy had no idea how he could.
“Andre, I am attending to your mate,” Jean-Marc said in English. Then he repeated the words in French. Next, he growled. The werewolf growled back, but it remained taut, its eyes darting around, its huge teeth glistening.
Jean-Marc moved his fingers and a bandage appeared—simply appeared—out of nowhere. He placed it against the wound and turned to Andre.
“Et voilà,” he said. Then he looked up at Izzy. “I’ll make another shield for you. Stay inside this time.” He began to move his fingers again.
She shook her head as she gestured at the still-glowing layer of light, blue and ethereal. “There’s something in it. Something bad.”
“The Devourer’s taint.” He sighed heavily. Beside him, Alain steadfastly looked down, pressing his hand over the bandage. Blue light emanated from his palm. “The good news is that the 9 mm rounds must not be magical,” Jean-Marc said. “Caresse’s heart was not stopped.”
A second explosion nearly shook Izzy off her feet. A third followed immediately after. She reached out and grabbed onto a tangle of vines, remembering then that she had hit someone with her second bullet. She darted into the thick tangle to find a man dressed in a black catsuit like hers, with black Bouvard body armor and their trio of flames insignia on the breast. He was lying on his back with his eyes open.
“Jean-Marc,” she called.
He came to her side immediately, looked where she pointed and aimed his Uzi at the man. Kicking at him with his boot, he grunted, then kicked him hard. She flinched. The man did not.
“Dead.” Jean-Marc was pleased.
She fell against the tree with a sob.
“Stay calm.” His voice held no warmth. “This is a crisis situation. There are going to be casualties.”
“This man. Caresse,” she rasped.
“Caresse was a mistake. She frightened you. I think this man was trying to shoot you. The Bouvards are fanning out from their headquarters,” he continued without pausing to indicate that he had moved to a new topic. With a jerk of his head, he looked over his shoulder. “Find a Femme Blanche if you can. That’s Caresse’s best hope.”
He was speaking to the werewolf, which had begun to change back into the man, Andre. His muzzle shortened and the fur covering his body began to recede—as if sliding back inside his skin—before her eyes.
She said to him, “I’m so sorry.”
The wolf growled low in its throat. She saw Andre’s eyes glistening in the mats of silvery-black fur.
“Stay in wolf form,” Jean-Marc cut in. “You’ll move faster.”
The werewolf threw back its head and howled to the moon. It paced back and forth, like a gliding shadow, then its muzzle stretched out again and the spark of humanity in its eyes faded. With a heaving grunt, it dropped to its forepaws and flashed into the brush.
Jean-Marc lingered beside her. Blood and moonlight tinted the tight curls cascading to his shoulders, his large, deep-set eyes drawing in light, returning nothing but steely resolve. She smelled sweat and leather on him, a not unpleasant combination, and studied him, trying to remember the past she shared with him.
Behind him, Alain lifted his palms and blue light swirled in the centers, as if he were holding two flat glowing discs. Flashes of azure glazed the high planes of his cheeks and wide mouth with a purplish glow.
“Jean-Marc, I need you,” Alain insisted. “I need help. Please pray with me.”
Pray?
He said to her, “Don’t move. Don’t run.”
“Can I help?” she asked.
“Not with this,” he replied, his voice emotionless. He held his body taut as he strode to his cousin’s side. He lowered his head, his hair streaming crazily over his shoulders. Alain did the same, and both moved their lips as she looked on. She wondered if they were praying to God.
She wiped her forehead with bloody fingertips and leaned against a tree trunk, watching them. She was acutely aware that a man lay dead behind her—a man she had killed. Her stomach lurched, and she bent over, sickened, with an attack of dry heaves. How long had it been since she’d had anything to eat or drink? She had no idea.
Why can’t I remember anything?
There was a rustle in the trees to her right, and she reached automatically for the gun—which was not there. Andre the silvery-black werewolf parted the underbrush, its eyes gleaming with moonlight as it stared at her for a moment, then chuffed at someone behind it.
A young, frightened woman dressed all in white appeared. She had gathered up the hem of a long, white satin robe in her hands, and her head was covered by a white veil. When she saw Izzy, her eyes filled with joy. She curtsied and lowered her head.
“Ma Gardienne,” she said in a voice filled with awe. “I’m so glad to see that you’re alive.”
“Thank you,” Izzy said, then, “Merci.”
“We took back the mansion,” the woman continued, with a flash of pride “But the Malchances have scattered into the bayou. It’s not safe here, madame.”
“Viens-ici,” Jean-Marc called to the woman.
She raised her brows questioningly at Izzy. “With your permission?”
“Wait,” Izzy said, and the woman froze. What am I to her? she wondered. Some kind of leader, or queen?
She turned to Jean-Marc. “You promised to take me to Pat.”
He narrowed his eyes. She could almost feel his hatred—directed at her, or at Pat?—and she took a deep breath and raised her chin.
“I won’t give this woman permission to help unless you come with me now,” she said.
The werewolf growled menacingly as the woman in the veil stared in astonishment at Izzy.
“Madame, I must help her. I can feel her life force ebbing,” she reported. “She is dying.”
The werewolf slunk toward Izzy. As it came closer, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. Her heart thumped wildly. Biting her cheek, she forced herself to remain silent. She had thrown down her gauntlet, and it was the only weapon she had.
“There will be plenty of dying. This is the world of the Gifted. All we do is die. Or kill,” Jean-Marc said angrily, rising and stomping past the werewolf. He patted the creature, then he whirled around and hurled a fireball directly at Izzy. She felt an electric shock run through her as she fell backward, landing hard on the soggy ground.
Just as unexpectedly, Jean-Marc straddled her, hands held over her face, glowing and white.
“Wh-what?” she managed.
“Good. You’re breathing. Attend to her,” he said to the woman in white, pointing at Caresse. “I’ll fulfill the request of your beloved Gardienne. Vite!”
“Let go of me!” Izzy yelled, struggling, as he grabbed both her wrists in one of his.
“Tais-toi,” he said. He scowled at the woman. “Do as I say! I am Jean-Marc de Devereaux, of the House of the Shadows!”
The woman looked questioningly at Izzy. “Gardienne?”
“Yes,” Izzy managed. “Help her.”
The veiled woman dashed over to Caresse. The werewolf followed, rising up on its hind legs, beginning the transformation back into Andre the man. Taking no notice, Jean-Marc hoisted her to her feet, his hand around her wrists so tight she could almost hear the bones in her wrist snap.
“Now, we’ll do it my way,” he said.
Chapter 3
Jean-Marc dragged Izzy through the bayou. She could barely keep up; when she stumbled over a tree root, he simply dragged her along behind him.
“Stop! Let me go!” she protested, scratching at the back of his hand with her fingernails as they splashed shin-deep in stinking black water. Smells roiled around her like living things—decay, blood, death—and she worked to plant her feet, fighting his momentum. But she kept sliding in the ooze, and he didn’t even seem to notice she was trying to fight him.
Then several figures darted from behind a cluster of trees hanging low over the water. They were seven, all men, wearing body armor emblazoned with the by-now familiar trio of flames on their breastplates. Their faces were smudged with smoke and blood, as if they were wearing masks, and the one in the middle looked familiar. Dark hair, dark eyes, very straight nose.
“Gardienne,” he said breathless, ducking his head. “Grâce à Jehanne, you are alive. We heard all that howling…”
She stared mutely as the other soldiers also lowered their heads. Submachine guns dangled around their necks. Behind them, to the left, to the right, projectiles impacted and gouged the earth. Water sloshed; herons burst out of the cypress trees and animals shrieked in panic.
“Michel,” Jean-Marc said. “La situation?”
The man—Michel—raised his head. “The Malchances panicked when they heard that Luc de Malchance was killed. We took the offensive and won back the mansion. They’re retreating and we are on them. They’re coming this way. But word has spread—a rumor only, I hope…” He took a deep breath, his dark eyes searching the woman’s. “Did Madame raise a demon?”
Her mouth dropped open. Had she heard him right?
Jean-Marc stepped in front of her. “There’s time for that later. We need to get her out of here.” He raised his hand and showed the other man—Michel—the Medusa. “The werewolves are with me. The bayou is ours. Your people can be my hostages or my allies.”
The men with Michel glanced at each other and put their hands to their Uzis, then looked at their leader for orders. He swiped the air, signaling them to back down.
“Our Gardienne is here,” Michel argued, looking straight at Izzy. Her stomach flipped. “She can speak for us.”
“Non,” Jean-Marc replied. “She cannot. She has sustained magical injuries and she is healing herself. I was her Regent, and I served your family well. Deal with me in that capacity.”
Michel raised a brow. “Madame, you are incapacitated?”
She caught a nuance in his use of the word “incapacitated,” and guessed that Jean-Marc’s authority rested on her answer. She didn’t know if she wanted him to speak for her. For this magical House of the Flames, of which she was the leader, so it seemed.
She didn’t like him. She didn’t trust him. But he was the devil she knew.
“I’d like Jean-Marc to speak for me,” she said, mentally crossing her fingers that she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.
Michel glowered at her. “I knew it. Half Malchance, conspiring to take over our family, and you’re probably allied with the House of the Shadows for battle strength. What did our dear Regent promise, that he would marry you? More half-breeds destroying centuries of tradition?”
“Take care, Michel de Bouvard,” Jean-Marc said, raising the Medusa and pointing it directly at Michel. “You are speaking treason. And you know I dealt harshly with traitors, when I wore the signet ring.”
His men stirred. The two farthest away grabbed their Uzis and aimed them at Jean-Marc. Another projectile shrieked through the sky and lit a canopy of trees across the water on fire. Michel ducked. Jean-Marc didn’t move at all. There was a second, closer. A third, closer still. In the firelight, Michel exhaled heavily and straightened.
“Where is the ring now?” Michel demanded, looking from him to Izzy.
“It is safe,” Jean-Marc replied, his arm never wavering. The contours of his catsuit highlighted corded muscles. He looked strong enough to keep the heavy weapon in place all night.
“No one saw this coming,” Michel said, sounding more lost than angry. “Our new Gardienne—our queen—the child of our deadliest enemies.” He studied her, as if the answers to his questions were written on her face. “Did you know what you were?” he asked in an agonized voice. “We welcomed you as our protector. Well, some of us did. I did. But then I saw the proof of your tainted blood. And this talk of raising a demon…”
She remembered nothing like that. She didn’t even know the name Malchance. She had no idea what a Gardienne was. The only things that were familiar were the logo of the triple flames, Michel’s face and Pat. And those only felt like ghosts of memories, and not memories themselves.
“She did not know what she was. You know that she didn’t,” Jean-Marc said. “Of all the Bouvards, you knew her best. She came here in ignorance. And she’s suffered for it. You are witnessing the results as we speak.”
Michel took a breath. “But—”
“You know she didn’t want to come. She didn’t even know that she was Gifted.”
“A ruse,” said one of Michel’s men—a tall man, his hand hovering beside a Glock in a holster.
How do I know the makes of their weapons?
“I’m surprised you were able to take back the mansion from the Malchances,” Jean-Marc continued, changing the subject again.
“What are you suggesting?” Michel snapped.
“You’re so weak,” Jean-Marc observed, “and the Malchances created that dampening field to make your magic ineffectual. They walked right in and took over. I can’t imagine how you turned the tables so easily.”
Michel bristled. “You don’t know everything about us, Devereaux.”
Jean-Marc raised a brow. “I know more than most,” Jean-Marc countered. The arm holding the Medusa was as steady as if it were made of marble. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His eyes blazed as he narrowed them, contempt and hatred dripping off him like poison.
“I know that your House is weak. Your magic is fragmented and unreliable.” Jean-Marc cocked his head, his eyes mere slits. “Have you perhaps allied yourselves with the Malchances? Did you make a deal—the House of the Flames could still stand, if you hunted down Isabelle de Bouvard and handed her over?”
She could feel the wrath surging through him, feel it, like icy heat. It stung her, physically. One of Michel’s soldiers—tall, thin—spat into the mud. He seemed unaware that Jean-Marc was about to explode like a live grenade.
“That would be a bargain your House would make.” Michel sneered. “The House of the Shadows, loyal to no one, waiting to see which way the battle goes so they can loot the bodies—”
Another mortar splashed into the bayou, shattering into a thousand purple flares that streaked straight at them in a collective cloud. This time, Michel and his soldiers whirled around and shot off their weapons, issuing streams of white light that crashed into the purple glow. The sky filled with a mushroom of white and purple, then lavender.
“Hostie!” one of them shouted as they shot again, and the light did not change.
Then Jean-Marc joined in, raising his hand toward the moon and lobbing off a huge mass of fire about the size of a basketball. An answering volley landed much closer, shaking the tree branches and wafting their collars of Spanish moss. Michel swore in French.
“Allons! Vite!” he shouted, ordering their retreat.
Without missing a beat, Jean-Marc bent down and scooped her into his arms, his empty left hand curling around her shoulder, his right hand, filled with her gun, positioned under her knees.
“Hey, put me down!” she protested as he bolted for the shadows, sloshing through the loamy earth toward the fetid bayou deep. She felt his muscular chest through her armor, the strength of his hands gripping her under her arms and knees—and the cold heat of his fury sizzling into her flesh.
He raped me, she thought, remembering those first few moments when she woke up and felt his hard length slipping from her body. Or did he? As he carried her out of the battle, her body reacted to his touch with sharp, undeniable hunger—despite their dire situation and her amnesia, despite everything. It was all she could do to keep her face averted as his hot breath panted against her cheek.
Michel caught up with him. He was free of burdens. He could shoot Jean-Marc and her in an instant.
“They’re coming,” Jean-Marc said. “They’ll take her if they find her. If you’re with us, tell me now.”
“And yet,” Michel replied sarcastically, holding his Uzi barrel with his left hand as he trotted beside Jean-Marc, “the bayou is yours.”
Before she realized what she was doing, she took a deep breath, held it as if she were preparing to recite lines someone else had written and spoke. “Fair warning—if you’ve turned against me, you’re in enemy territory, and you’re dead.” It was bravado, all for show, but it had its desired effect: the other man—Michel—gave his head a shake.
“Mais non. We are here precisely because we are loyal.”
Jean-Marc gazed down at her, blood smeared on his cheek, eyes glimmering with private amusement.
“Well done, Izzy from Brooklyn,” he said under his breath.
Whatever reply she might have made was lost as a hail of red light streaked toward them, screaming like Roman candles on the Fourth of July. Two of Michel’s men raised their Uzis and fired at it while Michel spread open his hands. White balls of fire rocketed from his palms against the cannonade.
Then incoming white light joined the fusillade of crimson and Jean-Marc swore under his breath, dashing beneath a thick canopy of trees just as they burst into flame. Blazing branches dropped like stones, hissing into the mud. She smelled charred leaves and saw sparks. A barrier of deep indigo flared around him and he zigzagged beyond that tree to another one, but the entire tree exploded in a shower of fiery wood chunks. They bounced off the shield of blue as he ran on.
Werewolves howled. Submachine guns pulsed one-two-three, one-two-three.
I really hope, she thought, clinging to him, that I live long enough to find out what’s going on…and who I am.
“Damn them,” Jean-Marc grunted, as he raced through the bayou. His first priority was to protect Isabelle, but that kept him from the battle—and his help was sorely needed. He carried her through the burning forest, seeking escape routes, weaving magical spells to shield them both. He knew she had seen menace in his aura—the blackness that had invaded his soul—and so he guarded against enclosing her within its protective influence. He kept it thin against his own body like a coating of wax, flinching when the streaks of evil ran over him like a strangely pleasurable cut.
Then a bone-searing burst of magic pierced his aura and ripped through his armor, imbedding itself in his shoulder as if someone had sliced him open and pushed in a charcoal briquette. The pain sent him stumbling; it took him back to the place where Lillianne had taken his soul. The blackness rose up inside him—the fury of the indignity; the danger—her fault, she has ruined my life, I’ll kill her now—and he forced himself to ignore it and run on.
“You’re hurt,” she said, his blood spattering her forehead and cheeks.
Just drop her in the mud, a voice whispered. Be done with her.
He faltered. He knew he was badly wounded. He needed help.
“Heal me. You’re the Daughter of the Flames. You have that power.”
Her lush mouth worked as if he had told her the most unbelievable lie in the world. Then her lids flickered shut, her lashes brushing her cheeks. She grew still. He felt worse. After a few more seconds, she opened her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how…I…I don’t remember….”
“Find your center. Try to focus. We have time.” He was lying to her again. “Allow yourself a moment, and it will come back to you.”
He pushed one leg forward but it wouldn’t bear his weight; his ankle gave way and he almost dropped her. The pain began shooting through his veins. He knew what was happening. He knew how long it would take. It would reach his heart in less than three minutes, and stop it from beating. He would drown in his own blood.
What would happen to her then?
“Isabelle, écoutes,” he said, and he could hear his words slurring. “You have the power. Somewhere. Find it. Now.”
She paled and shook her head, parted her lips to speak as a wall of flame erupted about forty meters ahead of them, cutting off that route. He glanced left, right; the world was blurring to blackness. Waves of cold, dark shame crashed over him, sucking his energy down to a black place; he was failing her, with his weakness and his slowness—I should have dodged that bullet—he was inept; he was a liar; he could no more protect her than that half-dead cowboy detective of hers.
Yet pride and anger kept him telling her that he was sorry, and a horrible, engulfing sorrow smothered his shame. He was going to die and all that could have been would never be.