Nancy Holder - Daughter of the Blood

“Daughter of the Flames by Nancy Holder

has a unique plot that will keep readers

hooked from start to finish.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4½ stars

His long, wild hair was caught back in a ponytail. His dark eyes blazed. 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 piss off Jean-Marc.

He gazed down at her. His lips parted and she felt his breath on her forehead. Determined not to betray herself again, she resolutely matched his gaze, raising her chin and tipping back her head. An inch closer, and his mouth would press against hers.

“You can’t be here,” she told him. “You just had major surgery.”

“I heal fast,” he said. “I’m a Gifted.”

“So am I.” And if you had died, I would never have gotten over it.

Dear Reader,

As I write this note, my daughter, Belle, has just finished her third year as a Brownie Girl Scout, and is now a Junior Girl Scout. To mark the occasion, our service unit put on an elaborate bridging ceremony. I watched my daughter eagerly cross a small wooden bridge—Brownie on one side, Junior on the other—with wistfulness and pride. I, too, have crossed many bridges in my life. Some I burned (!) and some I tripped merrily across. But to be honest, I didn’t want to cross a lot of them. I wanted to stay where I was, where I felt safe.

In Daughter of the Blood, Isabella DeMarco must cross a bridge from her old life to her new one. I hope that as you read about her journey, you’ll remember that you, too, have taken that scary first step many times. That makes you a true heroine in my book. In nearly every instance, once I’m across I’m glad I did it. But sometimes that first step requires a tremendous act of faith. Please write me about your own courageous crossings at www.nancyholder.com, and visit me at bombshellauthors.com.

Be bold!

Nancy Holder

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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is a bestselling author of nearly eighty books and two hundred short stories. She has received four Bram Stoker Awards from the Horror Writers Association, and her books have been translated into two dozen languages. A former ballet dancer, she has lived all over the world and currently resides in San Diego, California, with her daughter, Belle. She would love to hear from readers at www.nancyholder.com.

In memory of Jehanne D’Arc, the Maid of Orleans,

valiant warrior and commander.

To my Gifted daughter, Belle,

bridge-crosser par excellence.

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

With sincere thanks to the Silhouette Bombshell team: Tara Parsons, Natashya Wilson, Charles Griemsman and my acquiring editor, Julie Barrett. To all the terrifically talented, bright and courageous Bombards, my deep appreciation and gratitude for all the support, advice and friendship. Deepest thanks to my agent and friend, Howard Morhaim, who has guided my career and fed me well, and his assistant, Katie; and to my most excellent Webmaster and fellow soldier, Sam Devol. Also to Persephone, buffybuds, litvamp, SF-FWs, bryantstreet, novelscribes and JoysofResearch, especially Pat MacEwen, Val and Gerald. To Karen Hackett, Linda Wilcox, Christie Holt, Ashley McConnell, Leslie Jones Ackel, Elise Jones, Sandra Morehouse, Richard Wilkinson, Skylah Wilkinson, Wayne Holder, Anny Caya, Lucy Walker, Kym Rademacher, Susi Frant, Terri Yates, Monica Elrod, Barbara Nierman, Margie Morel and Steve Perry. Deepest thanks to Susan Wiggs and Gillian Horvath. And a deep bow to Andy Thompson and everyone at Family Karate, especially our dear friends Haley and Amy Schricker.

As a grateful citizen, I thank NYPD detective Edward Conlon, author of Blue Blood; and NYPD police officer Chris Florens, who wore the flower my daughter gave him behind his ear, and let her wear his hat. Last but certainly not least, my heartfelt thanks to Special Agent Jeff Thurman, not only for his friendship, but for the many years of hard work he has put into making this world a safer place. REV, o makunda o makunde.

New York

T he moon was a flickering, low-watt streetlamp threatening to go out any second. Sirens roared in the New York City jungle of burned-out tenements and rusted cars. Bottom-dwelling predators—dealers, pimps, ’kickers and gangbangers glided through the misery and poverty of the urban landscape surrounded by snowdrifts, garbage and needles.

It was the last hour of third watch, the end of Izzy DeMarco’s very first shift as an NYPD rookie. She and her field training officer, Patrolman Juan Torres, were escorting Sauvage, a young goth from Brooklyn, to her boyfriend’s place. The building was not very nice, but at least the graffiti on the bricks was random and crude, lacking the trademark tags claiming the building for some gang. Gang territory was worse news than basic low-rent squalor.

Sauvage had promised to stay here until the department located Izzy’s former coworker, Julius Esposito, and took him into custody. Sauvage had witnessed Esposito, who had worked with Izzy in the property room, shaking down a corner boy—a street dealer—for money and contraband. She hadn’t seen him commit murder, but Esposito was also wanted in connection with the possible homicide of Detective First Grade Jason Attebury, also of the Two-Seven.

Detective Pat Kittrell—what should Izzy call him, her lover? her boyfriend?—had argued that Izzy needed protective custody of her own. Although he had no concrete evidence to back up his case, Pat was sure Esposito was the shooter who had taken aim at Izzy’s father in a burning tenement fire—and missed. If he wanted one DeMarco dead, he might want two. Pat was furious when Izzy was assigned to escort Sauvage to a so-called safehouse, and he had half a mind to go to Captain Clancy and tell her so.

Torn between feeling flattered and patronized, Izzy had demanded that Pat stand down and back way off. The last thing she needed was a gold shield lecturing her boss about how to use a new hire.

I’m a cop. Finally. And I sure as hell knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

Besides, Sauvage had declared that Izzy was the only person in New York whom she trusted. With white makeup, black eyes and scarlet lips, costumed in her evil Tinkerbell finery—black-and-red bustier, lacy skirt and leggings topped by a pea coat, with combat boots sticking out underneath—Sauvage cut an exotic figure beside Izzy, who had on her brand-new NYPD blues. Izzy wore no makeup, and her riot of black corkscrew curls were knotted regulation-style, poking out from the back of her hat. Dark brows, flashing chestnut eyes, and unconcealed freckles danced across her small nose—Izzy had never aspired to fashion-model looks, but some men—okay, Pat—said she was a natural beauty. She didn’t know about that. But she did look exactly as she had imagined she would look in her uniform, and she was very proud.