Daughter Of The Blood Part 10

"She don't remember any of it," Andre told Izzy. "She can't tell us any more."

"Can you do some kind of ritual to call her loa back?" Izzy asked Alain.

He shook his head. "We don't do voudon," he said in a strangled voice. He was agonized, and she felt for him.

"But if Ungifted can practice it," she argued, "there must be-" she searched for the right word "-instructions, set ways of doing things."

"We're Gifted," Alain said, as if that should satisfy her curiosity. He turned away and went back outside.

It didn't satisfy her curiosity, and she was about to pursue the matter, when Caresse said, "Well, we don't do it, either. And don't bother Mamaloi. She's done, oui?"

She patted the old lady's cheek. The woman laid her own hand over Caresse's and said something to her that made Caresse laugh. Then Andre's mate straightened and walked briskly across the cabin to a propane stove.

"Mamaloi is hungry." She reached to a shelf above the stove and retrieved a cast-iron skillet and looked hard at Izzy. "You may not feel like eating, but you had better, jolie maitresse. Ooh-la-la, you had better. You need to feed your blood."

"For the gator?" Izzy asked.

"Oui," Caresse answered. She didn't smile.

Chapter 8.

The werewolves were hungry.

Caresse put on a pair of jeans, a T-s.h.i.+rt and an Emeril ap.r.o.n, then got down to cooking a Cajun feast-gumbo, crayfish and hush puppies. Claire and a third woman named Felice pitched in.

Izzy began slogging from one moment to the next, with no blood sugar and no energy. Evidently, as a Gifted, she had reserves of energy denied regular human beings. She began to view the ability to collapse as a luxury denied her. She offered halfheartedly to help with the cooking and was relieved when they turned her down.

Instead, Alain enlisted several of the werewolves to pour big plastic buckets of hot water into a cracked porcelain tub sitting on the back porch. Alain explained to Izzy that she needed to wash the magical residue off her body. Unless she got rid of it, she would fall prey to anxiety and probably depression. Jean-Marc had told her the same thing in New York. She had ignored his advice-and paid the price exactly as Alain described it.

The three Devereaux men would make use of a makes.h.i.+ft shower, but Alain wanted Izzy to soak for a while, as a precaution. Hence, the tub.

As he turned to go, Izzy said to Alain, "I'm so sorry about Matthieu. If there's anything I can do..."

He opened his mouth as if to reply. When he remained silent, she asked, "Is there something?"

He shrugged. "You are a de Bouvard. Your House is known for its ability to heal. But this wound for Matthieu...I think I'll carry it awhile, in honor of him."

She dipped her head. She wasn't sure she knew how to heal a wound like that. She reached out and took his hand. "I am so sorry." The words seemed so ineffectual, so superficial.

"It's not so much his death, as how he died," Alain murmured. "From what the loa told Mamaloi, they didn't take his soul, so there is at least that comfort." He ma.s.saged his temples, then dropped his hands to his sides with a sigh. "I need to shower. Be sure to soak a long time. You're not used to the power of your Gift."

"I will. Merci," she said.

Alain left her, and Claire arrived with a basket of herbs. The young boy who had gone into her house to a.s.sist with the killing of the dirty cop, John Cratty, who had been in league with Esposito, sat at her feet playing an accordion while Claire sprinkled the hot water with the herbs. Izzy marveled at the boy's cheerful innocence. In New York, he had witnessed two deaths.

"How old are you?" she asked him, when he stopped playing and smiled up at her, awaiting her approval.

He frowned. Didn't he speak English? She tried again and said, "That was very jolie. Thank you."

"He's maybe nine," Claire said, crumbling dried lavender between her fingers. "His parents died when he was just a t.i.t-sucker." She gazed fondly at the boy. "We don't talk about it much, but we think it was Ungifted hunters. Out for sport, didn't know the difference." She sighed as she rubbed her palms together to scatter the last of the herbs on the water.

She found a dried rose petal in her basket and tossed it into the tub. It fluttered like a b.u.t.terfly as it alighted on the surface. "All that's gone, now that the Devereauxes are here. The Flames never protected us."

"But aren't they...aren't we supposed to serve as protectors of the supernaturals and the Ungifted?" Izzy asked, still back at the boy's parents' having been shot by hunters.

Claire snorted. "Show me a Gifted besides Jean-Marc who would protect a werewolf," she said.

"My House should. Don't we protect all the supernaturals and Ungifted around here?"

"That's on a piece of paper," Claire informed her, sniffing. "Never been in real life."

Izzy gave a start as the boy touched the accordion keys and sound blatted out.

"Now Jean-Marc, that one, he loves the loupes-garoux." Claire grinned, showing big, white teeth. "He wants to be like us. All them rules, all the pressure. I think it gets to him. He's a wildman in his heart. Wants to run free."

Izzy filed that away. "He's awfully uptight," she said.

Claire raised a brow. "Like you." She flashed her big white teeth at Izzy. "You want to become one of us?"

Izzy's face tingled. "Ah..."

Laughter bubbled out of Claire as she gestured for the boy to get to his feet. "There's no way to become a werewolf except you have a maman or a papa who is one already," she said. "Now, vampires, whole other story. If they bite you and suck you dry, you come back." She nodded. Then she reached behind the tub and showed Izzy two big plastic bottles, one clear and one a frosted green. "Shampoo. Conditioner."

"Thank you," Izzy said.

"De rien, chere."

Claire hefted the boy's accordion over her shoulder and put her arm around him, leading him into the shack.

Izzy was so tired that her legs wobbled as she got into the tub. She tilted back her head, drenching her hair. She leaned her head against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. She began to cry, long and deep and hard, as the magical residue washed off her skin. Each sob contracted her entire body. It was almost o.r.g.a.s.mic. She understood it was a release after all the horror, and she let it happen.

Jean-Marc, she sent out. Are you conscious? Are you safe?

She shut her eyes tightly, focused and hopeful, listening between sobs. If there could be a sign, any sign-his heartbeat, a single, whispered word. But she heard nothing.

After Izzy dried off, Claire brought her a pair of wool socks, a jeans skirt and a ribbed, olive sweater. No bra, no underwear. As Izzy refastened her crucifix and the rose quartz necklace with the signet ring around her neck, Claire refilled the tub and threw in all Izzy's clothes. She whistled at the body armor and asked her if she might consider outfitting the werewolves with some "for the coming troubles."

"Oh, yes," Alain said, as she conferred after the feast with Andre, the two operatives, and him. Alain had eaten very little; he was still quite subdued. "Troubles are on their way."

They sat on the porch, Andre and Izzy in rickety but serviceable rocking chairs. Alain was seated at their feet on the uneven wooden porch, in a red-and-gray-plaid wool bathrobe. Izzy had tried to give up her chair to him, as he seemed to be in physical as well as emotional pain, but he refused.

The shadows were lengthening as the day stretched toward afternoon. The heavy canopy of trees rustled. Below them, at the water's edge, cattails jittered. There were splashes in the water-animals, birds, reptiles, Andre had a.s.sured her. But she had no idea why there couldn't also be bokors and demons traveling through the spooky bayou. Though Georges and several of the wolf brothers were escorting Mamaloi back to her own cabin in the swamp, Izzy feared for her. The voodoo woman had given them important information. Would their enemies punish her for it?

Maurice was on his way back to the mansion. After Georges had delivered Mamaloi to her home, he would join him. They were to report back what they found to Alain as soon as possible. Then Alain and Izzy would plan their next move.

Inside the cabin, someone began to play the boy's accordion. The bouncy zydeco provided an ironic backdrop to the heavy conversation on the porch.

"Troubles are here," Izzy emphasized, feeling alone and frightened. She wanted to call her men-Pat, Gino and Big Vince. She didn't know how much time had elapsed since she'd last spoken to them. The terrible lie that her life had become tore at her. She wished with all her soul that she was at a hotel in Florida, relaxing in the sun, which was what she had told them to explain her sudden absence.

"Oui," Alain agreed. "Troubles are here."

"Your a.s.sistant is very worried about you," Izzy remembered to tell him.

"Pierre's a good man, for a Bouvard." He gave her a dry smile and didn't bother to apologize for the mild insult. "I told Maurice and Georges to talk to him."

Then he wiped his face with both hands and flattened his palms against his knees. "I've got to get some rest. You should too, madame. When I hear back from our men, we'll decide what to do next."

"All right," she said. She guessed the two Devereaux ops were "her" men, too. "And please, call me Izzy," she said. At his grimace, she said, "Or Isabelle. Your cousin does."

Alain smiled gently as he shook his head. "My cousin is a different breed," he replied, and his smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'd sooner call you...Blanche Neige. That's Snow White in French. Escaping the huntsman in the enchanted forest..." He sighed, unable to continue his joke.

"You're worried about Jean-Marc."

"I am. And you. I'm worried about you." He exhaled, letting the smile go altogether, as if she and he were much too aware of the situation to bother with false optimism. "But we should rest while we can."

Just then, swathed in his quilt in his rocking chair, Andre emitted a long, deep growl. He was snoring. Izzy and Alain both laughed softly. It felt incredibly good to laugh. And so strange.

Detective Pat Kittrell dried off, folded the burnt-orange towel, hung it on the towel rack and padded naked out of the bathroom. He pulled back the bedspread, the blanket and the sheet and lay down. His skin was warm and moist, droplets of water clinging to his chest hairs, the whorl at his navel and the soft blond thatch surrounding his p.e.n.i.s and b.a.l.l.s.

He was already partially erect, and as his hand wrapped around the shaft, he closed his eyes and whispered, "Iz."

His hand began to move.

So very many thousands of miles away, deeply asleep, Izzy moaned, longing for him. He sensed her, and his back arched slightly off the bed, his pelvis thrusting forward and up, as if to penetrate his invisible bedmate.

"Pat," she whispered, straddling him. He was long, hard, and he filled her completely as she lowered herself on top of him. He molded his hands around her hips, guiding her as they began to move together. She clasped his wrists, feeling his racing pulse as it throbbed against her thumbs. Then it traveled to her rib cage, and beat inside her chest.

His heart was her heart.

"Isabelle," he said, and she looked down at him.

At Jean-Marc, beneath her, filling her, moving his hips inside her open, moist thighs, taking her.

Izzy's eyes flew open in the darkness of the werewolves' cabin.

Oh, my G.o.d. I was dreaming about them both.

Then she lifted her head and saw a figure standing at the entrance to the cabin. The door hung open, revealing the stars and the man. She couldn't make out his features, but she knew his silhouette, and now she knew his heartbeat, as its thrusting rhythm picked up inside her own body.

Jean-Marc stood alone in a s.h.i.+mmering aura of blue light. He was wearing battle gear, with a submachine gun slung across his chest. His long, wild hair was caught back in a ponytail. 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 p.i.s.s off Jean-Marc.

But he was here, and he was alive. Joyfully she raised herself off the sofa and got to her feet. She wanted to throw her arms around him and thank G.o.d for him. Every part of her body and soul responded to his presence.

She hurried toward him. And yet she didn't put her arms around him as she longed to. She stood inches away from him as he stared at her with his dark eyes, his heart pounding in her chest. In the void between them she could smell his scent. His body heat blazed against her face.

"You can't be here," she managed. "You just had major surgery." She wondered what his chest looked like. She wondered how it had been for him to wake up and find out everything that had happened.

"I'm a Gifted," he said. "I heal fast."

But if you had died, I would never have gotten over it.

"I'm well enough," Jean-Marc replied, and she swallowed, wondering if he had heard her thoughts.

Then he took Izzy's arm and jerked his head toward the front porch.

"Allez vite," he snapped.

As relieved as she was to see him, she was thrown by the way he manhandled her, the way a cop would a recalcitrant suspect.

"Hey," she protested as he moved off the porch and stomped across the dirt courtyard. It was still dark out; she heard frogs and crickets as she padded along beside him in her bare feet.

When they had reached the wooden gate, Jean-Marc released her and whirled on her, stabilizing the Uzi with his right hand.

"Why didn't you listen to me?" he demanded, shaking with fury. "Why didn't you stay in your mother's chamber?"

She remembered that that was the last thing he had said to her before he was wounded. He'd been yelling at her to leave the battle, go to safety. She understood that mentally he was picking up where he had left off.

"A lot has happened," she began.

"I know what's happened. Maurice and Georges briefed me." Then his expression softened as he ticked his gaze from her to his cousin, who was running toward them.

"Thanks be to the Gray King," Alain breathed, clasping Jean-Marc's shoulder, then enfolding him in a sort of hug, made awkward by Jean-Marc's armor and weaponry. Touching him, welcoming him back when Izzy had not.

"Grace au Roi Gris, Alain. Until I was debriefed, I was afraid you were dead."

Alain gestured to Izzy. "Then you know that I owe my life to this brave woman. She led a rescue party to find me."

"I know that she left the mansion in the company of two a.s.sa.s.sins," Jean-Marc retorted. His voice was harsh, his features sharp. There was no softness for Izzy as he glared at her. "What the h.e.l.l were you thinking?"

"Mon cousin," Alain protested, placing a hand on Jean-Marc's shoulder, "she's been through a lot."

"She could have spared herself a lot," Jean-Marc said. He rested his hands on the Uzi, waiting for her to account for herself.

Izzy ground her teeth. She was so angry at him...and yet, her body was responding to him as if she hadn't snapped out of her dream.

I was dreaming about Pat. And he ...intruded. He is not my lover. Pat is.