Son of the Shadows. Nancy Holder

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      The tendril of black hovered at eye level between her and Jean-Marc’s back; it turned itself toward her, revealing itself: it was an ebony serpent with glittering, jet-black eyes that blinked at her as it pulled back on itself, eyes gleaming, as if to strike—

      Yessssss, you are ssssomewhere near, Isssssssssabelle…

      She caught her breath and leaped backward, half falling out of the indigo as energy sizzled over her shoulders and the back of her head like steam. She had moved out of the bubble. The black snake struck, smacking against the blue barrier, and vanished with a hiss.

      Blinking her eyes rapidly, she watched as Jean-Marc pointed the Medusa straight into the air, telegraphing that he had it, but was not going to immediately use it. Ten feet away, the creature that had been Andre wagged its enormous head back and forth, as if in refusal. It took another lurching step forward. Its growl vibrated through Izzy’s boots.

      “Andre, c’est moi,” Jean-Marc said in French. Then he himself growled, the implied threat laid over a warning. The werewolf answered, deep and angry, lowering its head as it stared at the woman lying in blood on the ground.

      “Jean-Marc is trying to remind him that you didn’t mean to hurt her,” Alain translated. “And that she needs healing magic now, or she will die.”

      So she’s not dead, Izzy thought with relief.

      “I didn’t mean to shoot her,” she told him. “I know her, don’t I? I know all of you.” She ticked her head toward the werewolf, although she was too frightened to look directly at it. “I know him.”

      “Andre has risked his life to save yours more than once,” Alain replied. “He promised to watch out for you, always. My cousin is reminding him of that now.”

      “I don’t remember,” she whispered, her mouth as dry as dust. Who would want to remember any of this?

      Jean-Marc kept speaking to the werewolf, even, calm, firm. Alain moved his hands over the bleeding woman, never taking his eyes off the scene as it played out before him.

      “Jean-Marc, I am at a loss. We need Bouvard magic.” Alain shifted his dark eyes to Izzy. “Can you not help?”

      “Non, she cannot, thanks to you,” Jean-Marc replied bitterly. “Maybe I can.”

      He lowered the revolver to his side as he strode past the towering werewolf, which watched every move and kept growling, hunkering down slightly as if it were about to pounce. Jean-Marc ignored it, although Izzy had no idea how he could.

      “Andre, I am attending to your mate,” Jean-Marc said in English. Then he repeated the words in French. Next, he growled. The werewolf growled back, but it remained taut, its eyes darting around, its huge teeth glistening.

      Jean-Marc moved his fingers and a bandage appeared—simply appeared—out of nowhere. He placed it against the wound and turned to Andre.

      “Et voilà,” he said. Then he looked up at Izzy. “I’ll make another shield for you. Stay inside this time.” He began to move his fingers again.

      She shook her head as she gestured at the still-glowing layer of light, blue and ethereal. “There’s something in it. Something bad.”

      “The Devourer’s taint.” He sighed heavily. Beside him, Alain steadfastly looked down, pressing his hand over the bandage. Blue light emanated from his palm. “The good news is that the 9 mm rounds must not be magical,” Jean-Marc said. “Caresse’s heart was not stopped.”

      A second explosion nearly shook Izzy off her feet. A third followed immediately after. She reached out and grabbed onto a tangle of vines, remembering then that she had hit someone with her second bullet. She darted into the thick tangle to find a man dressed in a black catsuit like hers, with black Bouvard body armor and their trio of flames insignia on the breast. He was lying on his back with his eyes open.

      “Jean-Marc,” she called.

      He came to her side immediately, looked where she pointed and aimed his Uzi at the man. Kicking at him with his boot, he grunted, then kicked him hard. She flinched. The man did not.

      “Dead.” Jean-Marc was pleased.

      She fell against the tree with a sob.

      “Stay calm.” His voice held no warmth. “This is a crisis situation. There are going to be casualties.”

      “This man. Caresse,” she rasped.

      “Caresse was a mistake. She frightened you. I think this man was trying to shoot you. The Bouvards are fanning out from their headquarters,” he continued without pausing to indicate that he had moved to a new topic. With a jerk of his head, he looked over his shoulder. “Find a Femme Blanche if you can. That’s Caresse’s best hope.”

      He was speaking to the werewolf, which had begun to change back into the man, Andre. His muzzle shortened and the fur covering his body began to recede—as if sliding back inside his skin—before her eyes.

      She said to him, “I’m so sorry.”

      The wolf growled low in its throat. She saw Andre’s eyes glistening in the mats of silvery-black fur.

      “Stay in wolf form,” Jean-Marc cut in. “You’ll move faster.”

      The werewolf threw back its head and howled to the moon. It paced back and forth, like a gliding shadow, then its muzzle stretched out again and the spark of humanity in its eyes faded. With a heaving grunt, it dropped to its forepaws and flashed into the brush.

      Jean-Marc lingered beside her. Blood and moonlight tinted the tight curls cascading to his shoulders, his large, deep-set eyes drawing in light, returning nothing but steely resolve. She smelled sweat and leather on him, a not unpleasant combination, and studied him, trying to remember the past she shared with him.

      Behind him, Alain lifted his palms and blue light swirled in the centers, as if he were holding two flat glowing discs. Flashes of azure glazed the high planes of his cheeks and wide mouth with a purplish glow.

      “Jean-Marc, I need you,” Alain insisted. “I need help. Please pray with me.”

      Pray?

      He said to her, “Don’t move. Don’t run.”

      “Can I help?” she asked.

      “Not with this,” he replied, his voice emotionless. He held his body taut as he strode to his cousin’s side. He lowered his head, his hair streaming crazily over his shoulders. Alain did the same, and both moved their lips as she looked on. She wondered if they were praying to God.

      She wiped her forehead with bloody fingertips and leaned against a tree trunk, watching them. She was acutely aware that a man lay dead behind her—a man she had killed. Her stomach lurched, and she bent over, sickened, with an attack of dry heaves. How long had it been since she’d had anything to eat or drink? She had no idea.

      Why can’t I remember anything?

      There was a rustle in the trees to her right, and she reached automatically for the gun—which was not there. Andre the silvery-black werewolf parted the underbrush, its eyes СКАЧАТЬ