Daughter of the Blood. Nancy HolderЧитать онлайн книгу.
to touch him, to be sure that it was true. She needed to hear his voice. See those dark eyes flecked with gold.
“No, and we’re keeping that under wraps as well,” Louise told her. “We’ve got our best guarding him and your mother both.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve been assigned to you.”
“Good,” Izzy said. “Thank you.” She spied the nightstand beside the bed and, on impulse, slid open the top drawer. Her gris-gris lay coiled inside. Pleased, she draped it over her shoulders. She could feel its enfolding warmth. She decided to take it to Jean-Marc.
Izzy glanced at a large ebony clock on the mantel. It was exactly twelve.
She pointed to the clock. “Is that noon or midnight?”
“Midnight,” Louise told her.
Izzy was shocked. She’d been out for an entire day.
She rubbed her forehead as pain blossomed behind her eyes. Then a sudden, sharp image hit her—cattails and cypress trees, the bayou—she saw it all. Remembered it all.
“Madame?” Louise said, instantly on alert.
The pain intensified. Izzy rasped out, “Alain de Devereaux isn’t in a building. He’s in the bayou. You need to let Michel know. He’s searching in the wrong place.”
Louise scrutinized Izzy, cocking her head. “Meaning no disrespect, madame, but D’Artagnon assisted with the reading. He’s the best we have.”
“Have him recheck,” Izzy said.
Louise shook her head. “The remains were destroyed during the first reading.”
“I know he’s not there,” Izzy insisted. “You have to contact Michel immediately.”
Louise shook her head. “His team is on silent running. So are the other search parties. They’re so heavily warded we can’t even contact them telepathically.”
“Then you have to go to Michel,” Izzy said. She rethought. That would waste time. “I need to accompany a team into the bayou. I’m the one who can lead them to him.”
Louise demurred. “Please, don’t even think of that. Michel gave strict orders that you were to rest.”
“Michel’s not here. He doesn’t know what I know. No one does.” Izzy threw her legs over the side of the bed and got to her feet.
Izzy said, “I’m in command here. We need to rescue Alain de Devereaux now .”
Izzy could practically see the wheels turning in the agent’s brain. She raised her hand to brush errant tendrils of hair from her forehead, feeling more warmth against her skin as her headache lessened. Her palm was glowing; white heat pulsated in the center of her flame-shaped scar. On impulse, she showed it to Louise.
“Remember, I carry the sign of the House of the Flames,” she said. She touched the ring. “And Michel himself handed over the ring. I need to make my orders stick, or there’s no point.”
Louise appeared to be thinking this over. Ice-water fingers crept down Izzy’s backbone as she wondered if she and Louise were facing off. If she was about to find out what her true status was after all.
Louise made her decision, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw, saying stiffly, “As you wish, ma Guardienne . I’ll go with you.”
I am not the guardienne yet, Izzy wanted to say. But this most definitely was not the time to remind the agent of that.
She said, “Good. First I’ll go see Jean—”
Go now , said the voice. Or it will be too late .
She paused. Every part of her wanted to check on Jean-Marc first. But she knew she had to listen to the voice.
“What, madame?” Louise asked.
“Never mind. Where’s my gun?”
Louise hesitated, then reached inside her jacket and lifted Izzy’s Medusa out of her own holster.
“I took possession when you lost consciousness,” she said. “You have five .9 mm cartridges left. I’ll get you some more ammo.”
“Thank you,” Izzy said. “Now, we need a plan to rescue Alain without causing more havoc here in the mansion.”
“D’accord, ” Louise said. “Let’s work one out.”
It was a good one, given the short notice. One thing about growing up in the NYPD was that you learned that operations were far messier and more ad hoc than they were characterized in TV and the movies. Improvisation and crossed fingers comprised about fifty percent of a cop’s bag of tricks. So they had to leave a lot of holes that they would fill in as their mission got underway. It was the nature of the beast, and Izzy was good with that.
“Okay. Let’s go with what we have,” Izzy told her.
Louise half opened the door and peered out. “The Femmes Blanches are milling around out there.”
Izzy walked to the door and opened it. Veiled faces turned in her direction. Annette, who had been sitting in an ivory brocade chair beside a white marble statue of Jehanne, rose to her feet.
“Thank you for seeing to me,” Izzy told them. “I’m very grateful to you, and I’m all better now. Please resume your normal routine.”
Annette frowned. “You are our normal routine.”
“I’m fine,” Izzy insisted. “And I need some time by myself. I’ll have some guards. I insist,” she added, pushing.
Annette acquiesced with a bob of her head. “Oui, Guardienne .” She turned to the Femmes Blanches, and Izzy left it to her to disperse them.
From behind her Louise said, “I’ll make sure they leave.”
“Good,” Izzy said. “Meanwhile, I’ll get dressed.”
“Oui, Guardienne . The door will lock behind me. You’ll be able to get out, but no one but I will be able to get back in.”
With a bow Louise left, shutting the door, which clicked with finality. And Izzy wondered, not for the first time, if she had just become a prisoner.
Opening the armoire opposite the bed, she found all kinds of new clothes in her size. She pulled on black cargo pants and snaked a black turtleneck over her head. Jean-Marc, who had arranged for her wardrobe, had probably assumed she’d be wearing these clothes for training, not an actual mission.
Or had he? He had repeatedly warned her about the chaotic state of the House of the Flames. He had told her that blood was running in the streets of the French quarter, compliments of Le Fils. What then, had he been training her for, if not to get in on the action?
She found black wool socks and slipped them on. As she stepped into a new pair of black leather hiking boots, she glanced again at the antique ebony clock on the fireplace mantel. It was almost 1:00 a.m.
Her busy brain ran through worst-case scenarios. If word got out that she had left the mansion, an assassin might take that as his—or her—cue to kill Jean-Marc and her mother both.
I may be the only thing standing between Jean-Marc, Marianne and their enemies. Maybe I should leave Alain de Devereaux to his fate, no matter how awful it might be.
But what could she do to keep them safe? Her presence was not a guaranteed deterrent against any kind of attack on her mother and the regent. She had to play to her strengths: she stood a better chance of protecting them if she had backup she could count on. Allies. Real ones, not just assigned ones, like Michel and Louise. Jean-Marc trusted his cousin. That made saving Alain a priority. And if she could find Andre while she was at it, so much the better.
There was a sharp rap on the door. Louise entered. She was still wearing her suit, and an overstuffed olive-green duffel bag was slung across her shoulders. Sauvage and