Son of the Shadows. Nancy Holder

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