amis!” she called out, clapping her hands. Her French was definitely improving; when she’d first moved to Montreal from Chicago three years ago, no French Canadian had been able to understand a single word she said. “S’il vous plaits—”
And then the room exploded.
The ceiling burst apart like a shattered plate and rained down fragments. Smoke and flame poured in, searing her eyes and her lungs. Masked figures barreled in, aiming submachine guns at the groaning men on the floor. The invaders moved methodically, turning in circles.
Sophie, Nia thought frantically, trying to crawl toward the door. The bridegroom writhed beside her, groaning. Then she saw the barrel of a weapon pointed straight at the man’s chest….
No, not at his chest.
At her.
Her mind went blank. The image of the weapon shrank to a pin dot and Sophie’s face took its place.
Sophie, run. You’re in danger.
The man reached down and roughly grabbed her arm. He started to pull her along the floor. She shook her head and he dug his gloved fingers into the flesh of her bicep. It hurt.
“No,” she rasped; it came out as a croak followed by a fit of coughing.
Then he went down, crumpling to his knees, falling in an ungainly sprawl onto his side. There was a large, smoking hole in his armored back. Another hooded, masked man stood behind him.
“So-Soph—” she pleaded as he bent his knees and threw her over his shoulder, firefighter style. Machine gun fire roared and tat-tat-tatted; men screamed in pain; the restaurant was an inferno.
“Attends,” she begged. “My sister…”
They were outside. He threw Nia into the open door of a black panel van and landed on top of her.
“Vite! Vite!” he bellowed, as he whipped off his mask. He had dark eyes in a craggy face. Men piled in after him, and the van shot away from the curb like a bullet.
“My sister!” She was yelling in English, her voice screeching like a cat; she couldn’t remember a word of French. “Sophie!” She flung herself at the man, grabbing his armored shoulders, pushing her face nose-to-nose with him. “Let me out!”
“Alors, mademoiselle,” he said. “I am Gils de Devereaux, of the House of the Shadows. We are going to headquarters. There you will speak with our Guardien. He will help you.”
“But she’s back there! She’s there now!” she shrieked at him. “You’re leaving her! Listen, Maria Karras—”
Danger. Tell no one.
He raised his glove and made a circle, murmuring soft words that sounded like Latin. The sudden, overpowering fragrance of oranges and roses surrounded her, as if someone had wrapped her in a warm, scented blanket. Her terror faded and she became still, drowsy.
Deep inside her mind, she was still screaming. But her cries grew progressively muffled, even to her own ears, and to her heart. Her burning lungs stopped hurting; her eyes no longer watered. Something sweet and cool trickled down her throat. He was pressing a vial to her lips and she was drinking it down as if she were dying of thirst.
“Bon,” he said. “Now rest.”
She sank into the man’s arms and the world went black.
“Earlier today, the Keeper Sophie Davos was taken,” Jean-Marc de Devereaux reported, turning from Gils, his ops commander, to address Erik. Dressed all in black, Jean-Marc walked to the brilliant stained-glass window bearing the coat of arms of his ancient magical family, the House of the Shadows—a white bird flying from a castle tower and a gauntleted hand reaching out, whether to seize the creature or set it free remained unclear. The motives of House Devereaux were often equally murky.
In a large sliver of cobalt glass, Erik caught his own reflection, a foil to Jean-Marc’s dark looks—Norse through and through, with long, straight blond hair, dark cerulean eyes, and the rough-hewn features of a Viking. He wore a dark blue sweater, blue jeans, a navy blue watch cap and black sea boots. He was the Guardian of the North Sea—a Gifted magic user like Jean-Marc; however, unlike Jean-Marc, he was not fully human. Never had been, never would be.
For that, he thanked Njord, God of the Sea.
Since his legs were killing him, Erik sprawled in the ornate Louis XIV chair placed for him beside Jean-Marc’s ceremonial throne of gold and jewels. His own, back home, was made of coral, gold and pearls. He left the pacing to Jean-Marc.
Erik knew Jean-Marc had other pressing concerns. He had recently located the long-lost heiress of the House of the Flames in New Orleans. Erik also knew that Jean-Marc was in love with her, whether Jean-Marc realized it himself or not. The heiress was under attack by the House of the Blood, the third of the three original French Houses. He figured that once Jean-Marc debriefed him, he was on his own. The Guardian of the Shadows had a different battle to fight. The world above was going to hell.
“And she’s Keeper of the Jar of Naxos,” Erik filled in, ignoring the stabbing pains in his thighs, bemused, as usual, by the strange sensation of two appendages extending from his hips. Two long appendages; the rest remained as it was. He was a male, after all, whether man or sea king.
“Oui. One of two. The other is her sister, Nia. We got her out,” Jean-Marc told him. “She’s here.”
Erik raised a blond brow. “Two? Good. I’ll take this Nia to the Jar and—”
“Nia Davos doesn’t know where it is. She doesn’t know what it is. She didn’t even know she and Sophie were Keepers,” Jean-Marc said. “Nor that the Gifted even exist.”
Erik was shocked. She’d been kept ignorant of her exalted position? In his realm, those who bore heavy responsibilities were never allowed to forget it. He, of course, was a prime example. Not that he was complaining. He had undergone the ancient trials by ordeal to claim his right to be Guardian of the North Sea.
Jean-Marc walked over to a pool of water set in a large stone basin carved with arcane symbols and sigils. The Guardian of the House of the Shadows moved his hands, conjuring. He gestured for Erik to join him.
Erik groaned silently at the thought of walking across the vast, cavernous room, but he did as the other Guardian requested. He really should come on land more often; maybe then it wouldn’t be so difficult to use his legs.
Together they gazed into the bowl of crystal-clear water. Jean-Marc moved his hands across it, and the water solidified into a field of crystal. Inside the prism of swirling indigo, purple and black, the silhouette of an amphora, an ancient two-handled Grecian vase, began to glow. He clenched his fists and gazed at the find. It was the Jar of Naxos, a weapon of terrible power, one that had eluded him for decades.
He studied the boxy, earth-colored shadow surrounding the Jar, noting the ancient Greek lettering and arcane runes.
“Still in the original chest, and not yet opened. But if someone has a Keeper and the location of the Jar…” Jean-Marc said.
Erik felt the heightened anxiety crackling between them. Though the other Guardian shielded his thoughts, Erik knew they shared images of carnage and destruction.
