Nancy Holder - Daughter of the Blood

“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 Ruthven followed her into the room. They had both washed their faces. Izzy had never seen Sauvage without her makeup, and their relative youth and obvious fear gave Izzy pause. Maybe this was not such a good idea….

Sauvage ran over to Izzy, giving her a rib-cracking hug. “One of those chicks with the head scarves said you’d been hurt,” she said, gazing up at Izzy with tears in her eyes.

“I’m okay,” Izzy said, touched.

Ruthven was bug-eyed and frightened as he slid his hands under his arms and bowed awkwardly.

“Hola, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Did Agent Bouvard explain what I want you to do?” Izzy asked Sauvage, dispensing with the formalities.

Sauvage nodded wildly. “Yes, Guardienne, oui-oui .” She reached out and grabbed Ruthven’s wrist, yanking his hand loose and waggling it. “We’re in, right, baby?”

Ruthven swallowed hard. “It won’t hurt her, right?”

“Right,” Louise replied, stepping forward, taking charge. She said to Sauvage, “You won’t feel a thing.”

There was another rap on the door. Louise paused, closed her eyes, then crossed and opened it. Another female agent in a black suit briskly stepped into the room. She also carried a duffel bag. She had flaming red hair, and her green eyes reminded Izzy of Pat’s. Izzy felt a pang. Would she ever see him again?

“Madame la Guardienne. ” She greeted Izzy with a curtsy. “My name is Mathilde. It’s such an honor.”

Mathilde dumped her duffel bag onto the floor, unzipped it and began pulling out black clothing similar to Izzy’s. There were two sets of everything.

“I thought we should wait to change in here. I didn’t want to rouse suspicion,” Louise explained, as she and the redhead took off their suit jackets and began to unbutton their white shirts.

“Yow,” Ruthven said, quickly turning his back.

The two agents quickly stripped down to sports bras and underwear. Their bodies were sinewy. At the base of her spine, Louise sported a tattoo identical to the scar on Izzy’s palm—the flame icon of the House of the de Bouvards—and Izzy hoped it was a sign that Louise was genuinely on her side. It was going to be a real bitch if they got out into the field and these women turned on Izzy.

As Louise slipped on a pair of black cargo pants, Mathilde said to her, “I made successful contact with the others.”

“Good.” Louise slipped what looked to be a pair of brass knuckles into a cargo pocket. To Izzy she said, “We’ll have two more inside, two outside. So we’re six. Plus you, madame.”

“That’s it?” Izzy asked.

“We’re all high-level magic users,” Louise assured her. She was grabbing grenades, some piano wire and boxes of ammo to stuff into her pockets. “And there’s safety in small numbers. We can travel fast, and hopefully stay under everybody’s radar.”

Izzy wondered who “everybody” was.

As Mathilde packed her own cargo pants with equipment, Louise reached into her duffel bag with one hand and gestured to Izzy’s Medusa on the bed with the other. “I’ve got that ammo I mentioned.”