Nancy Holder - Daughter of the Flames

Allez! Vite!

Izzy’s eyes flew open at the sound of a male voice in her room.

“Yolanda, is your friend over?” she called. Maybe he had mistaken the bedroom for the bathroom or—

Isabelle!

She knew that voice. It was the man who had appeared in her dream—the second man, the one with the wild hair tumbling over his shoulders and the golden ring. The one whom she had answered, in French.

She started fumbling for the light, but she was in a strange room and she didn’t know where it was.

C’est moi, Jean-Marc de Devereaux des Ombres.

His voice was insistent, urgent. But it was inside her head. In her mind. Experimentally, she touched her head, feeling for headphones. Patting the pillow. “Who are you?” she demanded again, squinting into the darkness. “Where are you?”

A friend. Trust me. They’re looking for you.

I’ve gone crazy, she thought. But as she looked around again, she said hopefully, “Ma?”

No, I’m not Marianne. But I speak for her. I speak for Maison des Flammes…the House of the Flames. They’re searching for you. I’ll do all I can to protect you.

Suddenly a violent pain blossomed behind her eyes. With a gasp, she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose. It was so bad that she doubled over, losing her balance, and tumbled on her knees to the floor.

“Did you do that?” she yelled.

Shh. Lower your voice. They don’t know where you are. But they’re closing in.

Holding on to her bed, she got to her feet. Rubbing her forehead, she saw a rectangle of light around the venetian blinds. She stood to the side of it, then lifted the corner of the dark blue curtain and spied out onto the street below.

Her heart turned to ice.

The man in the long black coat stood across the street. He was smoking; she saw the glow of his cigarette against the dark outline of his head. He was not looking at her window; his gaze was focused a floor or two above it. But he was searching, scanning. She felt the familiar irrational dread at the sight of him.

She murmured, “Is that you or a friend of yours?”

Is someone outside?

“Yes,” she said.

Get out! Get out immediately! Don’t let him see you or you are dead!

“Okay, wait. Time out,” she said. “What the hell is going on?”

Maintenant! Vite!

“I have to get dressed—”

Non! Get out! Get out now! Move!

The man outside shifted his attention to the very window she peered out of. He threw down his cigarette and began to walk across the street.

“I need to warn Yolanda—” she began.

He won’t even notice anyone else! He wants no one but you! Get out of there!

Something inside her made her listen—she had saved her father’s life this way—and she whipped into action, bounding across the little room to the chair where she had piled her clothes.

Get out now!

She gathered up her sweater and pants, stepped into her boots and pulled on her own long black coat over the Marc Anthony T-shirt. Her purse…she couldn’t remember where it was. In the darkened bedroom? In the bathroom?

She couldn’t leave without it. Her cell phone was in it. Her money, her house key—

—and then she felt the wet velvet sensation wash over her, the same as in her bathroom—was it four nights ago? She stood stock-still, feeling like a prisoner eluding the searchlight of a prison guard tower. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy again.

The sensation passed.

Where are you? the voice demanded. Are you leaving?

“Oui,” she replied, shocking herself. She was speaking in French again.

Ah, c’est bon, he replied, and rattled off a barrage of French.

She shook her head, not understanding anything more, mincing backwards out of the bedroom.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.