Читать книгу Daughter of the Blood - Nancy Holder - Страница 12

W hy did everything have to be so complicated?

“I repeat, madame, ” Louise said in the hall outside Izzy’s mother’s chamber, “it would seriously jeopardize both Marianne and the regent to bring Esposito’s remains inside the chamber. They’re psychically toxic.”

So she was back to trusting the doctors and the Femmes Blanches to do no harm.

“We need to take them to the reading chamber, and we need to do it now,” Robert said. “They won’t keep their integrity long.”

She exhaled. “All right. Let’s go to the reading chamber, then.”

The two security agents looked at Michel. He gave his head a tense little nod, and the quartet walked away. The assistants had not asked to come with them, and appeared to be more than happy to let them leave without them.

Izzy and company used the service stairway. The descent was shadowy and narrow. Izzy’s shoulder brushed musty-smelling brickwork; she felt claustrophobic and scared.

Robert, Louise and Michel chanted beneath their breaths; everyone in the party, including Izzy, glowed with white light. Michel’s forehead was beaded with sweat as if the effort were costing him dearly.

“This is a protective shield of light, like armor,” he told her. “In time, one hopes you will be able to create one for yourself. It’s a fairly basic skill for us.”

“I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it,” she replied, wondering if he was trying to insult her or cow her. She stood next in line to rule over them like a queen, and everyone she had met so far was appalled at her ignorance and lack of skills.

After two more flights of stairs, they were in complete darkness. She felt a breeze against her face and heard the squeal of metal on metal. Chains clanked. A chill ran down her spine. Were they going into a dungeon?

Footsteps echoed against what might have been the walls of a cavern, and Izzy could make out the shapes of the two agents and Michel in front of her.

As she followed Michel, a stab of pain cut across the arch of first her right foot and then her left. On the floor, a line glowed with icy white light.

“A ward,” Michel informed her. “Very powerful.”

A door behind her slammed shut, the sound ricocheting around her. Light flared and flames undulated from the tips of torches set into each point of the white stone walls of an octagonal room. They revealed the mosaic floor beneath her feet, tiled in the familiar design of the head of a short-haired woman surrounded by a halo. Jehanne d’Arc, the patroness.

A figure walked from the shadows. It was six feet tall, dressed in a hooded, satin white robe that concealed its face and body. Its hands were moving inside the hood, and she nearly burst into giddy hysteria when she realized it was taking off a pair of earphones attached to an iPod dangling from its neck.

Her amusement died away when she saw its hands—they were leathery purple claws ending in sharp talons. Devilish, to her Catholic eyes.

“Bienvenue, ” it said in a hollow, rasping voice.

“May I introduce you to Felix D’Artagnon,” Michel said. The creature bowed low. “D’Artagnon is one of a clan of gremlins who has allied himself with our Family, in much the same way as Madame Sange.”

“Madame la Guardienne ,” D’Artagnon intoned.

“I’m Marianne’s daughter,” Izzy insisted.

Michel continued, “Gremlin is a general term for a class of beings that aren’t human but also aren’t demon. We don’t deal with demons.” His voice tightened. “It’s forbidden, and it’s punishable by death.”

“Got it,” Izzy said.

“Monsieur D’Artagnon and his clan are allied with us. They had a falling out with the Malchances about a century ago, and we…assisted them with sorting that out.”

D’Artagnon nodded.

“The Malchances. They’re not our favorite people,” Izzy observed.

“No,” Michel replied. “They’re not.”

D’Artagnon led the way toward a long stone altar in the dead center of the room. Now-familiar objects sat on the altar—a marble vase containing a lily, and a white candle floating in an alabaster bowl before a foot-tall statue of Joan of Arc. The Flames’ color was white, the symbol of purity. Above the altar, a chandelier encrusted with opals and moonstones held wax candles that gave off flickering, watery light.

There was no statue of Jean-Marc’s patron, the Gray King, nor of anything blue, which was the color of the Devereaux family. Of the three altars she had seen, this was the first without Devereaux symbols. Were they being written off? Seen as no longer relevant by the House of the Flames?

Izzy stood a few feet back with Michel and D’Artagnon while Robert slid the box onto the stone surface of the altar. As he retreated, he stumbled badly.

Louise caught him, grunting, “Hang in, Bob.” She said to Michel, “He’s had direct contact with the fragments, sir.”

“Then get him out of here,” Michel said. “Check in with me later.”

Izzy said to them, “Thank you for putting yourselves in harm’s way for the good of the Family.”

“Merci, Guardienne ,” Robert answered softly.

The two headed for the door. Once it had shut behind them, D’Artagnon moved to a low wooden table at one of the points of the octagonal room. He picked up a cardboard box of Latex gloves identical to the ones Izzy wore on the job in the property room at the Two-Seven.

“Madame et moi aussi, ” Michel told D’Artagnon, indicating the box.

D’Artagnon used his talons to rip open the box and began pulling out gloves, offering a wad to Michel. As Michel separated them into pairs and held one set out to Izzy, he added, “As you know, we suspect the Malchances are the real forces behind this attack. We do know they’ve been recruiting disaffected members of our own family.”

She waited a beat. “To…?”

“To overthrow the rightful bloodline,” he replied, as if it should be obvious. He waggled the gloves at her. “You.”

She took the gloves and inserted her fingers into the left one as Michel did the same. Then Michel crossed to the right, standing before the wall, and moved one hand in a circle. A door appeared and opened. Inside, several white robes, shimmering with appliqués of flames, hung from a wooden rod on wooden hangers. They looked similar, but not identical, to D’Artagnon’s. Michel snapped his fingers, and two of the robes detached from the rod, floating toward him on their hangers.

He snapped his fingers a second time, and the door, the rod and the hangers disappeared.

The robes magically settled on his and Izzy’s bodies. The robe weighed several pounds, and she wondered if it was actually some kind of body armor.

“If you please,” Michel said, reaching backward and pulling a hood over his hair.

Izzy did the same. She smelled lavender, and she was very warm.

Michel said to the gremlin, “Let’s begin.”

Raising their hands like scrubbed-in surgeons, he and D’Artagnon faced the altar. They took deep breaths, centering themselves; Izzy did the same, trying to let go of all the chatter in her brain—her anxiety, her fear. The smell of candle wax overlaid something more odious; she caught a whiff of a terrible stench and figured it was coming from the box. It did nothing to make her feel better.

D’Artagnon said something in French. Michel replied, then translated, “He’s worried about your being here. I told him you insisted.”

She looked from him to D’Artagnon, whose face was still hidden. He creeped her out. All of this creeped her out. “I’m staying,” she said to him.

D’Artagnon inclined his robed head. “S’il vous plait, Madame la Guardienne .”

“D’accord . Then do as we do, please,” Michel said. “Do not depart from our ritual.”

He and the gremlin extended their arms and began another chant. Izzy copied them, spreading her arms wide and trying to follow the singsong words, which they repeated in a complex pattern.

The chant seemed to go on endlessly, the stench to increase. A thin layer of something white appeared along the floor.

Michel said, “Don’t be alarmed. It’s for protection.”

It was a mist. It curled around her ankles, cool as whipped cream, smelling of lavender. It billowed up to her knees and grazed her hips, then it rushed all the way up to her chest. As it rose to the level of her chin, she backed out of it, although Michel and D’Artagnon remained inside, breathing deeply.

“It’s all right,” Michel said. “Come back in, please.”

She knew Michel would probably be happy if she bailed. But she stepped back into the fog, closing her eyes, and took an exploratory breath.

Despite the coolness of the vapor, it felt warm as it entered her body; it was soothing, like deep-heat rub on a sore joint. She exhaled and took another breath. The gentle lavender scent filled her nose. With a pang, she thought of the mingled fragrance of roses and oranges that had often accompanied Jean-Marc’s soothing spells. Would she ever smell it again?

Michel snapped his fingers, and she started, opening her eyes.

The mist thinned and drifted back toward the floor, condensing into puddles. The atmosphere grew darker, the room, cooler. The shadows themselves seemed braced for whatever came next.

Michael and the gremlin clapped their hands three times, bowed low and knelt on both knees on dry sections of the floor. Izzy’s stomach constricted as she knelt, too, and a cold chill washed over her. She trembled, hard.

“You’re sure you want to do this,” Michel said. “Once we begin, we can’t stop.”

“Yes.” Her voice broke. “I’m sure.”

“Et voilà ,” Michel said.

She and Michel began to glow again. On the altar, the lid of the white container popped open like a jack-in-the-box. From the interior, a curl of bruise-colored smoke drifted toward the ceiling. Another followed, roiling, billowing and folding in on itself.

“This is concentrated evil,” Michel informed her. “Please keep your distance until we take care of it.”

“Not a problem,” she muttered.

Enveloped in white light, he got to his feet and pulled an object from inside his robe. It was a golden athame encrusted with opals. Holding it like a switchblade, he cautiously approached the altar, as if the smoke were a wild animal that could spring at any time.

D’Artagnon also pulled an athame from his robe, his made of some sort of ebony material and free of decoration. Whispering another chant, the two arced their arms over their heads—Izzy saw D’Artagnon’s long, scaly arm—then whipped them downward and began slicing at the smoke. Wherever their knives connected, the smoke solidified into chunks, which then crashed to the floor. The chunks glowed like embers, then sputtered out.

After a few minutes, no more smoke poured out of the box. The floor was littered with purplish-black briquettes that reeked of decomposition, overpowering the lavender scent.

Panting, both Michel and D’Artagnon lowered their arms to their sides. Michel said to Izzy, “Please come to the altar, but don’t touch any of that. It’s still very powerful stuff.”

I’m glad I put my shoes back on, she thought as she cautiously tiptoed on the balls of her feet to his side.

Michel and D’Artagnon genuflected to the altar. She had seen Jean-Marc do the same at any magical altar he encountered. For the first time since her journey into the world of the Gifted had begun, Izzy did, too.

God forgive me, she prayed, feeling blasphemous.

Holding their athames overhead like flashlights, Michel and D’Artagnon approached the box. After a moment’s hesitation, Izzy approached, as well. She didn’t have the athame Jean-Marc had made for her, and she had no idea where it was.

Weaponless, she looked inside.

The container was filled with a black, throbbing mass of goolike substance that stank like rotten meat. She covered her mouth and her eyes watered.

This is what’s left of Julius Esposito? Had he even been human?

As she watched, the center section of the jelly moved, breaking apart, and in the indentation, a round, human-size eye with a deep-brown iris glared up at her. Her gorge rose and she fought hard not to scream. In that single eye she could see life…and evil.

“Stop looking at it, madame,” Michel ordered her.

Sickened, she turned away.

“More than bokor, ” Michel commented, with the air of a scientist examining a microscope slide. “What was he messing with?”

The temperature in the room dipped; it was like a meat locker. Izzy shivered, hard. Every instinct for self-preservation was telling her to get the hell out of there. Michel had warned her that this would be unpleasant, but it was horrible. She could barely tolerate the sensation of menace crawling over her.

Then a voice bounced off the stone walls: “Give me back my soul .” It was a low, terrified howl, and it shook Izzy to her core.

Michel grunted, still peering inside the box. “Malchance magic, I’m sure of it,” he murmured. “They’re good at soul stealing.”

D’Artagnon said, “Oui .”

“Julius Esposito,” Michel said into the box, “I call on you. Who captured your soul?”

“Give me back my soul. ”

“Tell us who has it, and we’ll retrieve it for you,” Michel soothed. “We can do that. We’re Gifted. We’ll help you.” Beneath the warmth of his promises, there was an unmistakable edge. He was lying. Izzy wondered if Esposito knew it, too.

“My soul! ”

Or perhaps Esposito was beyond caring. He was in agony. She had never heard such terrible despair in her life, and that included her father’s pleas to God Himself to bring his beloved wife, Anna Maria, back from the dead.

D’Artagnon murmured something to Michel, who nodded in reply. D’Artagnon extended his athame into the box.

“Stay well back,” Michel ordered Izzy.

There was a terrible shriek. The white candle on the altar flickered. The statue of Jehanne shifted.

New mist billowed from the floor, very white, very concentrated, so redolent of lavender that Izzy’s eyes watered. Neither Michel nor D’Artagnon paid it any attention. But the smell was choking her, making her cough and gag. The mist hung like a curtain between her and the altar.

A second, more horrible shriek followed.

The candles in the candelabra went out. A cold wind whistled around the room.

“What are you doing?” Izzy demanded, stumbling forward. She craned her neck—

A burst of brilliance filled her field of vision.

“Don’t look!” Michel cried.

But it was too late.

Where is your gun, Guardienne? He will take the gun and he will end the House of the Flames. You have to secure your gun. You have to do it now.

Izzy was running in the nightmare forest, dodging branches that grabbed at her as the wolves howled in a ring around her, their hot breath bathing the blood-red moon. The silver wolf at her side darted ahead, diving into the cattails at the murky bayou shoreline. Its tail bobbed like a periscope as the wolf searched frantically, howling and chuffing.

Baying, the other wolves charged in after the silver one, disappearing into the cattails. Water splashed as they all jumped in, and Izzy called out, “No! This way!”

The bayou was crawling with death. It was all around them. They had to get out.

“This way!” she yelled again.

Sharp rocks sliced her feet as she ran to a trio of cypress trees jutting from the water. She heard herself sobbing for breath.

The moon raced across the sky as if hunted like her. Death was coming like a whirlwind.

Pressing her fists against her abdomen as she sucked in air, she glanced up. Her lips parted in terror. Something hung from the center tree…a man…

She saw his shoes, and then his legs…

It was Jean-Marc, gutted, hanging from the tree, his face blackened, worms crawling from his empty eye sockets.

“It didn’t happen!” she shouted. “You showed me this before and—”

And he’s lying in surgery with his chest cracked open, a voice whispered to her. He’s dying, and he will rot, just like this. And it will be your fault.

Get your gun.