Kitabı oku: «The Gifted», sayfa 4

Chapter 4

Seated beside Izzy in the van, Andre answered his cell phone and spoke in a strangely accented, rapid-fire version of French that Izzy could barely understand. But she got the drift: They were in trouble.

She peered through the windshield. After dodging explosions, enemy forces with rocket launchers, grenades and submachine gunfire, they had met up with several Humvees and white vans emblazoned with the three flames. Now the parade screamed without headlights through ebony rain on an obsidian highway, out of New Orleans.

Andre disconnected and set down his phone. “Alain,” he called, “that was Michel. We need to get off the main road. The bad guys have choppers in the air.”

“D’accord,” Alain replied. “I’ve warded the van, but you never know.”

“Helicopters?” Izzy leaned forward and craned her neck to see up. Streaks of pastel melted the darkness, signaling the approach of dawn.

“Oui,” Andre grunted. “That may mean air-to-ground rocket launchers. The sun will rise soon. At least there won’t be any vampires coming after us.” He crossed himself and kissed his thumb.

Her stomach twisted as she studied him, trying to see if he was joking. Rocket launchers and vampires? What kind of world was this?

“Bon,” Alain replied. “Can you get us other cars? We’ll ditch these.”

“Already done,” Andre said. He smiled grimly. “We Cajuns got a lot of cousins, us. The cars won’t be as nice. But they’ll be harder to track.” He turned to Izzy and gestured to the glove compartment. Comprehending, she opened it.

“There’s a big wooden box. Remember that juju I gave you? There’s more in there. We’ll take those and hand them out to our people. Should have done it before.”

She didn’t remember the juju he gave her. She didn’t even know what it was. Flipping open the glove compartment, she found the box and opened it. Strings of bird claws, tiny blue bags and silver charms lay heaped inside. She tried not to let her disgust show as she picked up a string of claws and dangled it in front of her face. Sensing his eyes on her, she draped it over her shoulders.

She turned to him. “I’m sorry,” she said thickly. “I didn’t mean to shoot her. And…and that I wouldn’t let anyone help her until I got what I wanted.”

The burly man leaned over and patted her chilly hands. “D’accord,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Me? But how can you forgive me so easily?”

His eyes crinkled with real affection. “Because I know you. I know that you poor Gifted have all kinds of problems. You’ll come back to us. Then we’ll kick some Malchance ass and have a fais-dodo. Now pass out the mojo, chére. Everybody needs help.”

Izzy began to sort out the coils of charms and claws. She handed one to Andre, who grunted and pulled a string of claws and silver charms from inside his plaid shirt, showing that he was already taken care of. Then he looked in the rearview mirror.

“Alain, I’m turning off the road, going for the trees. Cars are waiting for us already.” He took a breath. “How is my bebe? You hold onto her, oui?”

“She’s better and better,” Alain replied. “The Femmes Blanches have worked good magic for her, mon ami.”

“Merci, merci bien, mes jolies,” Andre said. He raised a bushy brow at Izzy and she saw a tear sparkling in his lower eyelashes. “You see? It’s gonna be okay. Now pass them things out. We gotta hurry, us.”

She was grateful to have something to do as she handed the necklaces one at a time to Alain, who took them from her and draped one each over Jean-Marc, Caresse and Pat. Three more for the Femmes Blanches and three for the soldiers. There was no room to move in the back; everyone was wedged in like victims of a shipwreck in a lifeboat.

Adrenaline was pumping through her body like a river. She had a wild moment where she considered bolting from the van and running away, but she knew how irrational that was. And of course she would never desert Pat. But vampires? Demons? Juju? Mojo? Words from horror movies, not real life. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear the rhythm.

Andre’s cell phone rang again. He grabbed it, grunted and said, “Oui.” After he hung up, he yelled, “Okay, this is it!”

A second later he downshifted, swung sharply to the right and the van left the road. After they breached the roadside berm of dirt and vegetation, they tilted sharply downward. The low beams revealed branches rushing up as he kept his foot on the gas and his hands on the wheel. She heard the whum-whum-whum of a helicopter. He swore in French and turned off the headlights. She held onto the armrest and the dash, holding her breath.

Then the van slammed hard into what had to be the trunk of a tree, throwing her forward against her shoulder strap, and Andre immediately killed the engine.

“Merde! Everyone good?” Andre called.

“We’re good,” Alain reported. “The wounded are stable.”

“Vite, vite,” Andre said. Movement filled the compartment behind them. “You wait, I’ll help you out,” he told Izzy.

She gave her head a shake and tried the door handle. It opened and she hopped out onto hardpacked earth. Several low-slung, rusty sedans, minivans and station wagons wheezed beneath a stand of live oaks trees, exhaust puffing from their tailpipes. A van lumbered up, followed closely behind by a pickup truck embellished with a gun rack.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered, as a rangy man wearing a baseball cap and a jean jacket popped out of the nearest car. But that wasn’t her immediate concern. She had to see how Pat was doing. She knew he had been in her life before all the madness. He was the only normal person here, and he had come for her. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.

She circled around to the left-hand side, pulled open the panel and looked down at Pat. His face was gray and slack.

His chest isn’t rising, she thought in a flurry of panic.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she whispered automatically, placing a hand reverently on his forehead. So I’m Catholic, she thought. “Blessed art though among women.”

The other passengers stirred as if she had said something very odd. Then her mind filled with the image of the medieval woman with the short dark hair. Deep emotion gripped her hard, as if someone had gathered up her heart and given it a squeeze. She touched her chest as she missed not one but several beats. Then the sensation passed.

And she could no longer remember the words of the prayer.

Anxiously she licked her lips and put both her hands on Pat’s forehead. The van boiled with tension; the others were watching, waiting to see if she had the power to help him. She closed her eyes, willing herself to have that power. But as before, with Jean-Marc, she felt nothing.

“Allons,” someone said—one of the soldiers—and Izzy felt movement as people exited the van on the right side. Feeling useless, she cupped the sides of his face with her hands. He felt so cold.

Beside him, flat on his back, Jean-Marc watched her with half-open eyes, and she felt a moment’s awkwardness that she hadn’t done anything for him. If their past was half as complicated as their very short present, it would take some sorting out to see how she felt about him. She opened her mouth to speak to him, but Andre tugged hard on her elbow.

“Chére, we need to get them out of here.”

“Be careful with them,” she pleaded with Andre, then backed out just as lightning zigzagged across the sky and rain poured down as if a dam had broken.

“Hostie,” Andre swore. He held a hand over her head as if it would do any good at all. On boneless legs, she wobbled beside him to a dark-colored station wagon. “Get in the back. It’s safer there.”

She wanted to do something heroic, like insist that she didn’t want to be safe, but of course she did, and of course she knew that she had been expected to help, and had repeatedly failed, that this was happening because of her, but she didn’t know why.

The only thing she could do was not slow them down. So she climbed into the seat behind him and let him shut the door, then scooted to the far side so others could climb in. Craning her neck, she watched to see where they took Pat and Jean-Marc. Dark shapes moved in the darker rain. Lightning threw white light against the scene as a van rolled between her and Andre’s vehicle. There was a little boy sitting in the front, holding a little black stuffed animal.

No. It’s a kitten. It’s my kitten, she thought in a rush. It’s got a name, a funny name. It’s… She held her breath, waiting. Nothing popped into her head.

Then her door opened and Michel slid in, followed by a chisel-faced, dark-headed man in dark blue body armor, with a design in a patch on his biceps. She stared hard at it, trying to make it familiar. It was a tower made of stone. A gauntleted hand extended from it, either reaching for a dove that was flying out of the tower, or releasing it.

“I am Dominique de Devereaux. Jean-Marc called us in, Gardienne,” the man said, inclining his head deferentially. His accent was very thick, very French. “Lucky, Georges and Maurice. None better. I’m sorry we couldn’t get here any sooner.” He flashed her an almost boyish, lopsided grin, a startling bit of sunshine in his hard warrior’s face. “No one will get close to you, now that we’re here.”

“Thank you,” she said, faking a calm response as she wondered who “we” were, and how many. “Merci bien.”

“We have to go,” Michel insisted, pulling a pistol from a holster under his arm and cracking it open. “I have no idea why the ammo in your Medusa carried no magical payload. We’ve got several footlockers of different calibers of ammunition with us now, and everything tests out as fully loaded.”

“That’s good.” Another faked response. She was glad her Medusa hadn’t carried “magical payloads.” From what she understood, if she had shot Caresse with such a bullet, her heart would have stopped instantly.

The front passenger door opened and a dusky-hued woman in a loose-knit sweater and a long skirt sat down, slammed the door and put on her seat belt.

“Bon,” she said, trying to smile at Isabelle. “I’m glad you’re okay, chére. A bad business, this. I hope there’s room in your place in New York for all us Cajuns.”

My place in New York? Isabelle thought, wondering who this woman was and if she was a werewolf, too. “Of course there is,” she replied.

Jean-Marc did not die. He, Pat and the unsouled police officer were carried on stretchers into another van. One of his trusted Shadows lieutenants, Georges, got behind the wheel and took it down unpaved side roads that quickly became muddy gulleys as the rain poured down. Lying on his back with Alain hovering over him, he spoke to his cousin telepathically and the two assessed their situation.

Are the Bouvards among us aware that Isabelle has lost the use of her Gift, and has no memory of anything except Pat Kittrell?

Alain made a Gallic shrug. I don’t know. I don’t think so. But whether they do or not, I don’t like having Michel around. I don’t trust him.

I’ve never liked him, Jean-Marc concurred. He’s by the book, and there’s no book for what is happening here. Since the Middle Ages, our three Houses have maintained clear boundaries. There has never been a child of two Houses before—and of Bouvard and Malchance, of all things. Those two are mortal enemies.

Unlike we Shadows, who have no enemies, Alain observed dryly.

And fewer real friends, Jean-Marc pointed out. I was going to change all that after I became Guardian. I dreamed that I would rein in our manipulating and scheming.

Alain smiled grimly. You might as well have told our entire House to leap off a cliff. That has always been our way. Had he the chance, I’m sure Machiavelli would have chosen to become a Devereaux in a heartbeat.

He would be Malchance, Jean-Marc argued. He had a taint of evil, or so our grandmother said.

And she should know, his cousin replied, since she was his mistress for a time. A beat, and then, Thanks be to the Grey King that you did not die, cousin.

I haven’t forgiven you for what you did to Isabelle, Jean-Marc reminded him.

Better that you never forgive me, than that I did not dare anything and everything to get you back your soul.

A soul that is unclean.

We will remedy that, Alain promised. On this I swear a blood oath.

Jean-Marc lifted his right arm at the elbow. Alain clasped his hand, sealing the bargain. But Jean-Marc was not convinced that they had agreed to the same thing.

Alain, you must temper your loyalty to me. Promise me this. If the darkness overtakes me, and I become dangerous to those around me…to her…that you will end me.

Alain set his jaw and shook his head, his dreadlocks bobbing. You can’t ask that of me. I’ll never do it.

Jean-Marc sighed heavily, frustrated and wary.

She’s safe for now, Alain reminded him, laying Jean-Marc’s arm down by his side. Maybe this loss is her patroness’s way of releasing her from our world.

As patroness of the House of the Flames, Jehanne d’Arc had to know that Isabelle is half Malchance. And yet she allowed her to rule, Jean-Marc argued. Perhaps Jehanne was testing her to see which half was stronger.

I would argue for Malchance, Alain replied. After all, Isabelle lost her Gift after she raised the demon. A Bouvard can’t raise a demon, and even if one could manage it, they would rather die first.

And now she is defenseless. His temper rose and he struggled to sit up. And she lost her Gift because she performed sex magic to get back my soul.

We don’t know that’s why she lost it, Alain replied, pressing gently on his chest, first with his hand, and then, as Jean-Marc pushed angrily against it, with magic. Just before that, she conjured a demon. Her patroness is a martyred saint of the Catholic Church. Joan of Arc forbade the raising of demons, and abjured Isabelle from going through with it. It is possible she withdrew the Gift herself.

We must get it back for her. Immediately. Jean-Marc pushed on his elbows, then contracted, hard, as pain shot through his body.

Lie down and get better while you can. There is no rest for the wicked, Jean-Marc.

Your sense of humor is highly inappropriate, Jean-Marc snapped.

Then get up and kick my ass, Alain replied with a crooked grin.

I intend to. Jean-Marc didn’t smile. He felt himself losing consciousness…whether his cousin’s doing or his own exhaustion, he couldn’t tell.

When he woke up, he was lying on something wonderfully soft. There was a flickering glow against the ceiling and Denise, the Femme Blanche, sat in a simple wooden chair beside his feather bed. He was in a house, in a bedroom. She was holding his hand, sharing her energy with him, and when he stirred, she jerked and half stood, knocking over her chair. It clattered against stone.

“Monsieur Gardien, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to awaken you,” she whispered, whirling around and retrieving the chair. She set it down, clasped her hand against her chest and took a step backward. Her dark eyes—Bouvard eyes—were enormous, her cheeks pale. She was afraid of him.

“It’s all right, Denise,” Isabelle said from the doorway. She was wearing a scarlet velvet skirt that swept the floor and a black boat-neck sweater that was too big for her—clearly castoffs from someone else. Her hair was gathered up and held in place with a black velvet comb. Tendrils caressed her temples and cheeks. She looked like a nineteenth-century Spanish dancer.

Denise dipped a curtsy in Jean-Marc’s direction, then hurried to the doorway like a little white bird greeting its returning mother to their nest.

“Ma Gardienne,” she murmured. “He’s awake.” She spoke the words as if they were a warning.

“It’s all right,” Isabelle said again, dismissing her. Denise moved around the room, which was decorated in fifties’ retro-chic—black-and-white-checked linoleum on the floor, and white walls decorated with old monster-movie memorabilia. There were a lot of monsters from Lon Chaney movies—werewolf movies.

Then he looked down at his naked chest—and the large scar across his heart, where he’d been previously wounded—and realized that beneath the bedclothes, he’d been stripped naked.

“Why is she so afraid?” he asked her.

“She said you were muttering things in your sleep…terrible things. She was afraid you were going to cast a spell that would kill us all.”

“Hostie,” he grunted. “And yet she stayed.”

“She is a very dedicated healer.”

“She’s loyal to you, Isabelle. You asked her to remain,” he guessed.

“No,” she replied coolly. “I told her she could leave the room if you got too scary.’

“Ah.” They had never pulled punches with each other before. Why should he expect her to be different now? She had lost her memory, not her personality.

“Has this place been warded? By warded, I mean—”

“I know what it means,” she replied. “It has.”

“You’ve gotten your memory back,” he ventured hopefully.

She shook her head. “Alain explained it to me. Magical barriers have been put in place to lessen the chance that we’ll be found and attacked.” She spoke calmly, but he sensed her anxiety. She’d be a fool not to be terrified.

He smelled herbal shampoo and lavender soap and body lotion as she walked toward his bed, placing her hands on the back of the chair as if it were a shield. Her hands were trembling. So she was afraid of him, too.

“We’re in a safe house,” he guessed. “Where? Whose?”

“Virginia. We drove straight through, changing drivers. It’s been about twenty-five hours. The house belongs to friends of Andre’s.” She cleared her throat. “A werewolf named Bobby.”

“How is Caresse?”

She took a deep breath before answering. “She’s doing very well. That police officer…they knocked him out. Alain told me that he’s deteriorating badly and may die. I tried to help. The Femmes Blanches are shocked that I can’t heal anyone myself. The Bouvards are known for it.” Her expression clouded. “I…not so much.”

“You’ve had your moments,” he said.

She nervously tapped the chair with her fingertips. Some spells were tapped out like that. He wondered if she remembered the danced spells he had taught her—moving together as if they were practicing tai chi, spinning slowly like dervishes in sweats and T-shirts. She was as graceful as a fawn.

“Alain and Michel have been filling me in.” She shook her head. “It’s quite a story.”

“It must be hard to take. The first time I told you about the world of the Gifted, you thought I was insane.”

“I don’t remember the first time you told me, but if it makes you feel any better, I still think you’re insane.” Her gaze traveled from his face to his chest and lingered there. From the softening of her expression, he guessed that she was wondering about the scar. Then she saw that he was watching her. Flushing, she came around the chair and sat down, crossing her arms over her chest and her legs over each other—another shield.

“Alain said that you, he and I were taken prisoner by the Malchances in the bayou,” she went on. “They invaded my headquarters and created dampening fields so that the Flames couldn’t fight back with magic.”

“It didn’t take much to disarm your family. The magical potency of the House of the Flames was already very weak,” he replied, pulling no punches. “No one knows why, but I think it’s because your mother slept with the Guardian of another House, and had children with him. It damaged her beyond repair.”

The color in her cheeks deepened, as if she were ashamed. Of course she had no reason to be—she’d had no part in what her parents had done. He felt for her—all the jolts, the revelations. He was surprised she hadn’t lost her mind altogether.

“I don’t remember my mother,” she said. “Or my sister.”

“You were both taken from her as a baby. You were adopted, hidden until recently. I found you.”

“So I’ve been told. I don’t remember my adoptive parents, either.”

He tried not to read her mind, but anyone with an ounce of Gifted blood in his veins would be unable to ignore the anguish washing over her. He couldn’t imagine how frightened she must be.

“In the bayou,” she continued doggedly, “your soul was stolen. I…I performed sex magic with you to get it back. And now here we are. As we are.” She stared at him. “Screwed up.”

Anger boiled instantly to the surface. He had always had a temper, but years of discipline and adhering to duty had long ago taught him to restrain it. Now he could barely stay in control. It was the darkness in him, he told himself, and not his fear for her.

“Alain shouldn’t have—”

“I think that I was the one who suggested it,” she interrupted. “I’m not sure why he’s taking the blame.”

“Because he should. It’s not something you could have done on your own. He had to guide you, to weave spells around us both. Just as the Bouvards forbid the raising of demons, we forbid any contact with the unsouled. It’s anathema to us.”

“That’s too bad for you,” she bristled. “As far as I’m concerned, he did me a favor. I’ve lost my so-called ‘Gift’ and now I’m a regular human being. And as soon as Pat is well enough to travel, we’re leaving, thank God.”

“We’re all going to New York,” he said carefully.

“I mean, we’re leaving you people. I don’t ever want to see you or hear from any of you again.” He saw the tension in her face, the stiffness of her shoulders. He could will that out of her, make her less stressed. But he knew that she needed her anger. It was giving her some power and his Isabelle needed some of that.

She is not my Isabelle.

“You can’t do that,” he informed her, pitying her, wishing he could tell her that she could wash her hands of them and return to the world of the Ungifted. “Your sister is named Lilliane. She was married to your cousin, Luc, and you summoned a demon that killed him.”

“So everyone keeps reminding me,” she snapped. “I have no recollection of that, and if I did it, I’m sorry. I’m different now. I’m not a threat to anyone. I’ll send her a message—”

“She’ll never accept your apology. She wants nothing less than to feed your soul to Le Devourer. She’s mad, Isabelle. Folle.” He underscored, leaning toward her. “Your common blood won’t spare you. If anything, it condemns you, in her eyes. You killed the Gardien of the Malchances, and you are half Malchance yourself.”

She looked away, eyes darting for a few moments, then focusing on the candle beside the bed. The light played on her skin, caressing the planes and hollows of her features, reminding him of the exquisite oil portraits of Devereaux duchesses on the walls of his mansion back in Montreal. But she was not Devereaux. And despite that, they had once been so close; their connection ran deeper than any he had ever shared, even with Callia, the woman he had been expected to marry.

He remembered his Shakespeare: She doth teach the torches to burn bright. His chest caught; his sex stiffened.

Take her. Throw her down and take her. Show her who’s in charge here. Claim your right. You are a king…

“Isabelle, écoutes,” Jean-Marc said, shifting the coverlet to conceal his erection. “I know you don’t remember, but an assassin came for you in New York. It was tracking you everywhere. You would have died if I hadn’t found you and shown you how to use your Gift.”

Her shoulders stiffened and her fingers stopped tapping. She kept looking at the candle. He could see her tuning him out, because she was afraid. He leaned farther toward her. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and make her understand. Her life depended on it.

“You’re in a worse situation than you were then. You have made deadly enemies in the Gifted world. And if they know you have no power, they’ll crush you.”

“I won’t put Pat in danger,” she whispered. “I’m out. I’m done. None of this is my problem anymore.” She licked her lips. “We’re going home to live like normal people.”

“You’re not a ‘normal’ person. According to the tradition of your House, you received your legacy directly from Jehanne d’Arc, Joan of Arc. Everyone had deserted her, except for your ancestress, the Duchesse de Bouvard. She bribed her way into Jehanne’s jail cell and kept watch with her the night before her execution. She promised always to fight for justice and defend the weak. And Jehanne gave your family her sacred Gift, passed from mother to daughter, for centuries. You are the Daughter of the Flames, and you are not normal.”

“According to what I’ve heard, we’ve…they’ve…turned our backs on the weak,” she riposted. “They had a treaty with the city of New Orleans to protect the locals and tourists from the Supernaturals, as you people call them. And they didn’t.”

“Don’t dodge the issue. They couldn’t. There was a void in leadership. Your mother the Gardienne was in a coma for twenty-five years,” he said. “There were factions vying for power, trying to claim the legacy—the Kiss of Fire. Your mother was dying, and I went to New York to look for you.”

Keeping his lower body covered with the sheets, he climbed out of bed and reached for her hand. Using the chair as a barrier, she took a step backward.

“As soon as you received the Kiss, you put your life on the line to kill a vicious vampire. You did exactly what the Duchesse promised your patroness, despite having learned only a few weeks ago who and what you were. Jehanne meant for you to rule the Flames.”

A violent shudder worked its way through her, and a tear slid down her cheek. She looked down and away—anywhere but at him. Each time he thought he was making headway with her, she erected barriers of denial.

“I still say it’s insane. I don’t believe it,” she insisted, walking backward another two steps.

But he knew that part of her did believe it, or she wouldn’t be here, discussing it with him. He felt another rush of pity for her…until the contamination inside him reshaped that pity into contempt.

Why do you argue with her? She’s weak, foolish. But she’s also very beautiful. Have her. And be done with her. You can weave a spell of desire she will not be able to resist. You’ve had her before. You know how sweet she tastes.

He ignored the mocking voice, sitting back down because it was obvious he was intimidating her.

“We have both been wounded, you and I,” he emphasized. “You are Gifted, but have no power, and no aura. I don’t know what that means for you, but until I know for certain that you’re out of harm’s way, I have to keep you close by, watch over you. It’s my duty.”

She shook her head. “It was your duty. Alain explained that to me, too. When I became the Guardian of the House of the Flames, your obligation to me ended.”

“My official obligation. My moral obligation remains.”

“It really doesn’t,” she shot back.

“Isabelle,” he ground out, “we can’t continue to argue about this. We’re in danger. We’re endangering the life of Andre’s friend every moment we stay here. We’ll get to the safe house in New York and regroup. It’s a magic neutral zone. Everyone’s magic is less powerful there.”

That caught her attention. He watched her carefully as he proceeded. “In New York, we can watch over your Ungifted relatives and family. Your father, your brother, your adoptive family. Your coworkers.”

“In the neutral zone?” she said suspiciously. “If it’s so safe there, why are they at risk?”

He groaned, rolled his eyes to the ceiling and ran his hands through his hair. The sheet around his middle slid past his navel, revealing his abs dusted with black hair. She averted her eyes.

“By my patron, you’re infuriating! Must you argue every single point?”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t try to bully me.”

Aren’t you starving for her? Don’t you want her? Shut her up with a kiss.

She licked her lips and smoothed down the impossibly long skirt. “You’re right. I don’t know why I’m arguing every single point anymore. We’re done.”

But she didn’t leave.

The oversize boat neck of her sweater slipped, revealing her bare shoulder and the soft rise of her left breast. He was taken back in time to the night he had had sex with her, to imbue her with power; how passionate she had been as he changed the two of them into animals—dolphins, jaguars, soaring eagles—mating, coupling…

If you take her, you will reawaken her Gift.

“No,” he said aloud.

Yes. You will. You know you will.

He could feel lust rising from him, encircling him; a Gifted male of his level sent out fierce emanations of desire, designed to entice an equally Gifted female. Sex between Gifted was truly magical, and transcendent in pleasure. He knew the first time he had slept with Isabelle, she had never experienced anything like it in her life. He had known how to please her, how to give her what she wanted and take her to a height of ecstasy she could never have imagined. But he had not done it only to give her pleasure; he had done it to strengthen her Gift. Just as she had had sex with him a second time, to reclaim his soul.

He had to remind himself that even with her memory intact, Isabelle still thought like an Ungifted. Sex meant something different to them. At its deepest level, it was an expression of love and commitment, manifested in the creation of life. When he had offered to sleep with her again, to further strengthen her Gift, she had refused, in order to stay loyal to Pat. He had found her refusal as charming as it was frustrating.

If you sleep with her, she will be safer.

Her chest rose and fell; beneath her sweater, her nipples were taut. Her eyes had gone soft, limpid, her lips moist and parted. The curls grazed her neck as she tipped back her head, and the sweater slipped farther off her shoulder.