acquiesced with a bob of her head. “Oui, Guardienne .” She turned to the Femmes Blanches, and Izzy left it to her to disperse them.
From behind her Louise said, “I’ll make sure they leave.”
“Good,” Izzy said. “Meanwhile, I’ll get dressed.”
“Oui, Guardienne . The door will lock behind me. You’ll be able to get out, but no one but I will be able to get back in.”
With a bow Louise left, shutting the door, which clicked with finality. And Izzy wondered, not for the first time, if she had just become a prisoner.
Opening the armoire opposite the bed, she found all kinds of new clothes in her size. She pulled on black cargo pants and snaked a black turtleneck over her head. Jean-Marc, who had arranged for her wardrobe, had probably assumed she’d be wearing these clothes for training, not an actual mission.
Or had he? He had repeatedly warned her about the chaotic state of the House of the Flames. He had told her that blood was running in the streets of the French quarter, compliments of Le Fils. What then, had he been training her for, if not to get in on the action?
She found black wool socks and slipped them on. As she stepped into a new pair of black leather hiking boots, she glanced again at the antique ebony clock on the fireplace mantel. It was almost 1:00 a.m.
Her busy brain ran through worst-case scenarios. If word got out that she had left the mansion, an assassin might take that as his—or her—cue to kill Jean-Marc and her mother both.
I may be the only thing standing between Jean-Marc, Marianne and their enemies. Maybe I should leave Alain de Devereaux to his fate, no matter how awful it might be.
But what could she do to keep them safe? Her presence was not a guaranteed deterrent against any kind of attack on her mother and the regent. She had to play to her strengths: she stood a better chance of protecting them if she had backup she could count on. Allies. Real ones, not just assigned ones, like Michel and Louise. Jean-Marc trusted his cousin. That made saving Alain a priority. And if she could find Andre while she was at it, so much the better.
There was a sharp rap on the door. Louise entered. She was still wearing her suit, and an overstuffed olive-green duffel bag was slung across her shoulders. Sauvage and Ruthven followed her into the room. They had both washed their faces. Izzy had never seen Sauvage without her makeup, and their relative youth and obvious fear gave Izzy pause. Maybe this was not such a good idea….
Sauvage ran over to Izzy, giving her a rib-cracking hug. “One of those chicks with the head scarves said you’d been hurt,” she said, gazing up at Izzy with tears in her eyes.
“I’m okay,” Izzy said, touched.
Ruthven was bug-eyed and frightened as he slid his hands under his arms and bowed awkwardly.
“Hola, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Did Agent Bouvard explain what I want you to do?” Izzy asked Sauvage, dispensing with the formalities.
Sauvage nodded wildly. “Yes, Guardienne, oui-oui .” She reached out and grabbed Ruthven’s wrist, yanking his hand loose and waggling it. “We’re in, right, baby?”
Ruthven swallowed hard. “It won’t hurt her, right?”
“Right,” Louise replied, stepping forward, taking charge. She said to Sauvage, “You won’t feel a thing.”
There was another rap on the door. Louise paused, closed her eyes, then crossed and opened it. Another female agent in a black suit briskly stepped into the room. She also carried a duffel bag. She had flaming red hair, and her green eyes reminded Izzy of Pat’s. Izzy felt a pang. Would she ever see him again?
“Madame la Guardienne. ” She greeted Izzy with a curtsy. “My name is Mathilde. It’s such an honor.”
Mathilde dumped her duffel bag onto the floor, unzipped it and began pulling out black clothing similar to Izzy’s. There were two sets of everything.
“I thought we should wait to change in here. I didn’t want to rouse suspicion,” Louise explained, as she and the redhead took off their suit jackets and began to unbutton their white shirts.
“Yow,” Ruthven said, quickly turning his back.
The two agents quickly stripped down to sports bras and underwear. Their bodies were sinewy. At the base of her spine, Louise sported a tattoo identical to the scar on Izzy’s palm—the flame icon of the House of the de Bouvards—and Izzy hoped it was a sign that Louise was genuinely on her side. It was going to be a real bitch if they got out into the field and these women turned on Izzy.
As Louise slipped on a pair of black cargo pants, Mathilde said to her, “I made successful contact with the others.”
“Good.” Louise slipped what looked to be a pair of brass knuckles into a cargo pocket. To Izzy she said, “We’ll have two more inside, two outside. So we’re six. Plus you, madame.”
“That’s it?” Izzy asked.
“We’re all high-level magic users,” Louise assured her. She was grabbing grenades, some piano wire and boxes of ammo to stuff into her pockets. “And there’s safety in small numbers. We can travel fast, and hopefully stay under everybody’s radar.”
Izzy wondered who “everybody” was.
As Mathilde packed her own cargo pants with equipment, Louise reached into her duffel bag with one hand and gestured to Izzy’s Medusa on the bed with the other. “I’ve got that ammo I mentioned.”
Hearing that, Ruthven turned back around, as if eager to watch. He and Sauvage put their arms around each other, observing in silence as Louise pushed the flange on the left side of the cylinder, then eased the cylinder out of the frame.
“All you need right now is one more .9 mm,” Louise said, pressing a lipstick-shaped cartridge into the cylinder. That accomplished, she held it out to Izzy. “Remember, madame, there’s no safety.”
Mathilde, who was strapping on knee pads, stared at the Medusa and murmured, “Sweet,” as Izzy picked it up. Fully loaded, it was much heavier than before. “May I hold it, madame?”
Izzy hesitated, then handed it to her.
Mathilde hefted the Medusa, whistling soundlessly. Her interest bordered on lust, and she exhaled deeply, like a spent lover, when she passed it over to Louise. Izzy kept a lid on her growing anxiety; these women were crack shots, and they were the only two in the room who were armed. She wanted the Medusa back. Now.
“Did Jean-Marc have this made for you?” Louise asked, tracing Izzy’s portrait etched in the grip. Izzy was surprised that Louise didn’t know that the gun was Marianne’s. The picture of Izzy—or Marianne—had magically appeared during their training session in the Cloisters, back in New York.
Izzy picked up her gun belt and wrapped it around her waist, saying, “It’s my gun.”
She waited a beat. Louise stared back down at the Medusa and said, “If you don’t know how to use it, maybe I should keep it. It’s extremely powerful.”
“I
