stunned. He looked from her to Jean-Marc and back again with palms held up in front of him.
“You’re confused. It must be the toll of the spell,” he said slowly. “It’s me, Alain, remember me? You’ve done a wonderful thing. You brought him back. Merci, merci bien, Gardienne.”
Waves of tranquilizing magic flowed from Alain’s palms in Isabelle’s direction, and the scent of oranges and roses intensified. Jean-Marc watched her fight it. First she remained stiff, giving her head a shake, then she swayed, enchanted, as her lids grew heavy and her lips parted. Allowing himself to be affected by Alain’s spell—he needed soothing; he was a mess—Jean-Marc’s aura became visible as well—deep, vibrant blue…until streaks in the color shifted and darkened—a blacker shadow, a pall of pure evil.
Alain stared at him in horror, lowering his hands, forgetting what he was doing. “My cousin…” he whispered.
“You see it.” Jean-Marc held out his hands. The blackness played over his aura, smearing the vibrant Devereaux blue.
“Ah, non. What went wrong?” Alain asked in an agonized voice. “We moved fast to recapture your soul.”
Idiot! the darkness inside him growled at Alain. Have you no imagination, no idea what your bungling has done to me?
“Lilliane moved faster, to sacrifice it to her patron,” Jean-Marc replied, ignoring the damning voice inside his head. “He’s called Le Devourer, and he is an eater of souls. He tore out part of it, and the void filled with his essence. Demonic evil.”
“That cannot be,” Alain protested, his voice hollow with disbelief. “Such things…they don’t happen.”
“It has happened,” Jean-Marc replied, as the horrible presence throbbed and pulsed inside his being. He had been mutilated, violated…by Isabelle’s own sister.
“Isabelle is half Malchance,” Alain said slowly. Perhaps he heard the echo of her name in Jean-Marc’s thoughts. “Could it be possible she gave you part of her soul?”
“The Malchances walk with darkness, it is true,” Jean-Marc answered. “But this is beyond even them.”
Jean-Marc studied Isabelle, whose head bobbed toward her chest, starting at the crown of her head, to her cheeks slashed with blood like war paint, to the cleavage of her breasts and her delicate hands. He moved his hands in a spell of his own, willing her aura to reveal itself. But there was nothing. He tried again. He couldn’t believe it. She had no aura. There was no such thing as a Gifted person who didn’t have an aura.
“Alors,” Alain choked out, his hand covering his mouth. He looked as if he might be sick.
Fresh rage surged through Jean-Marc at his cousin’s stupidity and weakness. He raked his hands through the matted curls of his shoulder-length black hair, pulling it away from his left cheek, where it was plastered with blood. He took deep breaths, forcing himself to remain composed.
“Sex magic is the strongest magic we have,” he said at last. “She took me when I was mindless and soulless. It’s done something to her, too.” He bared his teeth at Alain. “How could you tell her to do that?”
“I…” Alain swallowed hard and licked his lips, his body language alone betraying the fact that he knew he was at fault. But Jean-Marc could read his emotions, too, and he stank of guilt. “I didn’t know…”
“Don’t lie to me!” Jean-Marc thundered. And a voice inside him whispered insidiously, Kill him.
He ignored it, balling his fists, weaving a spell around the ravages of his soul to keep the voice at bay. Oui, he wanted to kill Alain. He wanted to maim him, torture him, make him beg for death—
“Alain,” he said evenly, “don’t lie to me.”
Alain lowered his head in shame and nodded.
“You are not only my cousin, Jean-Marc, you are the leader of my family. How could I stand by and watch you suffer? You are my blood. I would have done anything to bring you back.”
“Including risking her,” Jean-Marc said.
“Oui,” Alain confessed, raising his head. “Including that.”
“Bâtard!” Jean-Marc bellowed. Hatred coursed through him like a live wire. He lost what little control he had achieved; he knew he was going to kill Alain here, now. And he was going to enjoy it.
His aura flared around his body like a nuclear detonation, and he hurled a fireball at Alain, who instantly held up his palms and created a protective barrier of shimmering blue. The fireball exploded against it, then disintegrated into sparks that winked out before they touched the ground.
“Jean-Marc, listen to me,” Alain said, moving with his hands and body, strengthening the curtain of indigo that hung in the air between him and his cousin. “We’ll get rid of the evil in your soul. We’ll make you well and whole. But for now, you must fight it.”
“I am trying,” Jean-Marc said through clenched teeth. Sweat beaded his brow. “Oh, gods, I can hardly bear this.”
“Bear it,” Alain begged him. “Écoutes, I’ve been on recon. It’s as the werewolves say. We’ve defeated the Malchances that were here in the bayou, but the Malchance troops inside the Flames’ headquarters are escaping. They’re on their way here, and the House of the Flames are pursuing them. The Flames may be loyal to Isabelle, but then again, since she is half Malchance, they may not be. And if not, there’s no telling what they’ll do to Isabelle if they capture her.”
And to us, Alain could have added, but he and Jean-Marc were soldiers. It went without saying that they stood in harm’s way.
Jean-Marc nodded. “Alors, Isabelle,” he began, then looked around. She was gone. “Putain de merde, where is she? Isabelle!”
Both men broke into a run. The noise in the bayou ratcheted up, as if sensing that something more had happened, something worse. Nutria screamed from the cypress trees; a gator rushed a floating body and dragged it underwater. Crashing through the undergrowth, werewolves howled.
We have dead, and we will kill our enemies! Stay out of the bayou unless you’re one of us!
Jean-Marc howled back, telling them to find Isabelle. Find her, subdue her and get her out of there by any means necessary.
Dizzy and nauseated, she fled as wolf howls chased after her. He had hypnotized her but she’d broken out of it; there was no telling what he’d planned to do to her next. He and that guy with the dreadlocks—Alain—it was like a horror movie, with men in armor slaughtered all around her, and that man raping her….
Tree branches whipped her face. She fell into the mud on her hands and knees, twisting her ankle, and the pain shot up into her hip socket. Grunting, she got back up, losing the robe she’d covered herself with. Now she was completely naked, lost in a swamp that shook and screamed like a living creature. She didn’t know who she was, or where she was, but she knew she had been violated, and she was still in terrible danger.
They called me Isabelle, she thought, but that’s wrong. That’s not my name. My name is…
She couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t she remember
