Drake Chronicles: 02 Blood Feud (9 page)

Logan stood, al feral grace and ironic smile. He looked as comfortable and pretty as a guest at one of my parents’ bal s, even shirtless. I was stil panting, nearly nauseous from the swirl of emotions swamping my stomach: anticipation, anger, regret, humiliation. My mother’s dress, Greyhaven. It was very nearly too much. I stood slowly, like an old woman. Charlemagne pressed his cold nose into the palm of my hand for comfort and I wasn’t sure which of us needed the comfort more.

“Are you okay?” Logan asked quietly.

I nodded jerkily. “I’m sorry.” I was accustomed to being lauded for my focus and control.

“What happened? Do you know that Greyhaven guy?”

“
Oui
.”

His eyes narrowed on my face. “Who is he? What did he do to you?”

“What makes you think he did anything?” I stepped out of the blackberry thicket, scenting the air for any trace of Host. We were alone.

Logan’s expression was grim. “Isabeau, I saw the look on your face.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m fine now. We should return.” I turned to walk back through the trees but he grabbed my arm. “You nearly lost it back there.”

I stiffened. It didn’t make it any more palatable that he was right. “But I didn’t.”

“Next time, you could put my sister in danger with your temper.”

I swal owed a hot retort. “It won’t happen again.”

“I know,” he sighed, letting his hand drop. For some indiscernible reason, I felt its absence. It was as if I were cold now, and I never got cold.

I didn’t know what it was about Logan that flustered me like this. I was going to have to find a way to stay away from him. He clearly wasn’t good for me.

“I can see it’s not in your nature to give like that. Would you tel me what he did to you, anyway? Please?” I lifted my chin, refusing to be pitied.

“He’s the one who turned me and then left me in a coffin underground for two centuries.”

•

We didn’t speak again on our way back to the farmhouse. As far as diplomatic missions went, mine was already a disaster.

I’d attacked a family friend, got doused with Hypnos, and nearly went mad with rage—al in one night.

No wonder I was so exhausted.

We’d barely been gone for half an hour, for al that it felt like days. Logan’s brothers were al dressed and sitting in a grim half circle around the foil-wrapped package in the parlor.

Solange was frowning at it, tapping her fingers on her knees.

Lucy was asleep on the sofa, her head resting on Nicholas’s leg. He’d draped an afghan over her, and she looked tiny and defenseless in a room of predators who couldn’t help but hear the temptation of her heartbeat. She dozed on, utterly trusting.

“Did you get any of them?” Quinn snarled.

“Yeah, we tracked one, thanks to Isabeau,” Logan replied wearily, dropping down to sit in a chair.

“And?”

“And we got minimal info and nothing we hadn’t already guessed: traitors and surprise attacks.”

“I can’t believe the bastard got through our defenses.” Quinn continued to seethe. He shot to his feet and prowled the room, his agitation rousing Lucy. She blinked blearily at him, then at Logan and me.

“You’re back.” She yawned. She glanced at Solange. “Quit staring at it so hard—you’l give yourself a migraine.” Solange pried her gaze away with visible effort, turning to me.

“Is it safe to open it? I mean, Bruno scanned it and everything, so we know it’s not a bomb or anthrax or whatever, but stil .

What do you think?”

What do you think?”

“I would always rather know what I’m dealing with,” I said.

Logan groaned. “You would so open the bomb every time, even when it’s ticking right at you.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. I was stil getting used to modern vernacular, and English at that, but Solange nodded fervently at me. “Exactly. These guys just want me to play Snow White singing in her little cottage while they do al the work.” Lucy snorted. “Snow White and the Seven Buttheads. You could give Disney a run for their money.”

Nicholas poked her in the ribs. “I am not a singing dwarf!”

“No, you’re a butthead. Weren’t you paying attention?” She grinned and kissed him quickly.

“I’m opening it,” Solange announced suddenly, grabbing the package.

Every single one of her brothers started to talk at once, voicing the same basic variation on two themes: “Don’t” and

“Let me.” She ignored them and tore at the paper instead. The box underneath was plain white cardboard, the kind for transporting cakes. She bit her lip, pausing very briefly.

Nicholas reached across to take it from her and she slapped his hand away without even looking at him. She lifted the lid, leaning backward slightly, as if she expected something to leap out of it like an evil jack-in-the-box. Her brothers did the opposite and al leaned in closer. Then we went as stil as only vampires could go, prepared to attack, prepared for anything except what was actual y in the box.

Lucy shuddered. “You guys are creeping me out. Quit it.”

“That’s it?” Solange asked, final y breaking the tableau. In the center of the box was a red velvet pil ow displaying a smal lump wrapped in red thread. It smel ed strongly of rose water and cinnamon. My nose itched. “What is it?” she asked.

I knew exactly what it was.

“Isabeau?” Logan turned to look at me. I wondered what made him already so sensitive to my moods.

“It’s a love spel ,” I said flatly.

“What?” Solange recoiled. “Ew. God. Do these things even work?”

“Sometimes.”

Her eyes widened. “Seriously?” She stood up to put more distance between her and the box. “Why won’t he just go away?

I thought this would final y stop after my birthday.”

“He doesn’t stop, not ever,” I said. As a Hound, I knew Montmartre and his Host better than anyone. “He has the patience of a snake and that’s what makes him so dangerous, more so than his cruelty or strength or selfishness.”

“Wil he ever get it that I don’t want to be queen and I sure as hel don’t want to marry him?”

“No,” I replied truthful y. “Not unless you tel him with the help of a stake through the heart.”

She was pressing her back against the far wal ; any farther and she’d be through the window and in the garden. “Um, is it my imagination, or do I feel funny?”

“It’s possible.” I stood up, sniffing at the charm. “It’s very strong. Those are two apple seeds wrapped in red thread and a strand of your hair. He must have gotten it that night we a strand of your hair. He must have gotten it that night we stopped him in the caves. And that’s a hummingbird heart it’s al pierced into.”

“What do we do?” The whites of her eyes were showing now, like a wild horse.

“Don’t panic,” Lucy said soothingly. “And what is it with you guys and disgusting hearts?”

“Lucy, I don’t hate him right now! Not like I should!”

“I’l hate him enough for the two of us until we figure this out,” she promised grimly.

“Let’s burn it,” Quinn said, reaching for the box and tossing it toward the dwindling fire in the hearth.

“No!” I cried out, leaping to catch it before it fel . The charm was pinned to the heart pil ow, which I plucked out of the air. The box landed in the embers and caught almost instantly. Light flared into the room. Everyone stared at me. “Fire wil only make it stronger,” I explained. “Fire is passion.”

“What about water?” Lucy asked. “My mom’s always dunking stuff in water to purify it or cleanse it or whatever. She chants naked in the woods too.”

Logan tilted his head, considering. I ignored him, grateful that vampires didn’t blush easily. “No, not water either,” I said cool y.

“That would feed the emotion targeted by this spel : love.” Solange swal owed hard. “Can we do something fast?

Please?”

“I need salt,” I said, “two freezer bags, ice, and white thread.” Logan vanished and returned within moments with my supplies.

“Are you sure you know what to do?” Connor asked doubtful y. “Maybe we should ask around, do some more research? I could go online.”

“I know what to do. This is what it means to be a Cwn Mamau handmaiden.”

“I thought it was al about kicking Host ass.”

“That too.” I half smiled. “We are magic as much as we are aberration and genetic mutation.” I dumped salt into both plastic freezer bags. “Surely, you’ve noticed as much?”

“I … guess.”

I felt bad for them, to have so much knowledge and so little instinct. Magda had told me enough times that magic and prayer weren’t relied upon in this century. It seemed a waste of tools to me. Anyone who had seen Kala work her magic would never think otherwise. I had nowhere near her experience but I knew I could handle a charm, even one bought by Montmartre.

And there was no question he’d bought it off some witch—no one else would be able to make these bits of string and apple sing this way.

“Now what?” Logan asked.

The strand of Solange’s hair was long, wrapped, and knotted in red thread. I worked it out careful y, tugging gently, patiently unwrapping even when Quinn came to stand behind me and scowl. Logan nudged him back a step.

I freed the hair and placed it between two ice cubes. I tied them into place with the white thread. “This wil protect you,” I murmured at Solange, concentrating on scenting the magic, as I’d been taught. I imagined the thread to be as impenetrable as I’d been taught. I imagined the thread to be as impenetrable as a shield, as strong and sharp as a sword, as implacable as midwinter. “White represents protection and purification.” Solange nodded. “Okay. Use the whole spool, would you?” Quinn growled. “Hurry.”

I dropped the ice cubes in one of the bags and sealed it. I buried the apple seeds and the unraveled red thread and hummingbird heart in the salt of the second bag and added a layer of ice cubes to the top. I sealed that one as wel .

“These need to be frozen.”

Several hands stretched toward me. Solange was faster, though pale and tight around the mouth. “I’l do it,” she said, her tone hard, brooking no argument.

She left and we could hear muttering and the slamming of the refrigerator door. Hard.

“In three days put them both in a jar of salt and sour wine and bury it at a crossroads,” I advised her when she returned. “And don’t let anyone see you do it.”

“Can I spit on it?”

“By al means.”

“Thank you, Isabeau. This is the second time you’ve stood between me and that horse’s ass.”

“
De rien
.” I yawned.

We hadn’t noticed the dawn in our concentration. I’d been exhausted before working the charm; now I was beyond fatigue, though stil pleased to have redeemed myself from my earlier mistake in the woods.

The others weren’t faring any better, young enough not to be able to fight the lethargy that came with the sunrise. I felt weak as water, crumpling to lie on the carpet. Charlemagne curled at my head to protect my sleep. I saw Logan yawn as wel and stretch out on the rug beside me. Nicholas was propped up on the couch, Connor slumped uncomfortably in a nearby chair.

Only Marcus managed to crawl upstairs, but I had no idea if he’d made it to his bedroom. I was conscious just long enough to hear Lucy mutter.

“Vampires. Sure are the life of the party.”

CHAPTER 8

Isabeau

I didn’t know if other vampires had nightmares, but mine always came in that hazy place between dead sleep and sudden wakefulness.

It was the same dream every time.

It had been a ful week since I’d last had it, the longest I’d gone yet. I’d never told anyone though I was pretty sure Kala suspected. She found me once, stuck in the loop of fear, wide-eyed and clammy, a crowd of dogs licking my face and trying to get me to move. Now it was strong enough to pul me out of sleep, even before twilight did.

Even though I didn’t remember al that time trapped underground, the dream was always the same. I was inside the white satin-lined coffin, the fabric dirty and crawling with insects.

Dirt crumbled through the cracks in the wood, and roots dangled like pale hair. I was wearing the silk gown I’d worn to my uncle’s Christmas party but not the choker I’d made from the length of my mother’s dress. That was as upsetting as being buried alive; I carried that indigo fleur-de-lys scrap with me everywhere, even in the al eys of Paris.

I scratched at the coffin and kicked my feet until my heels were bruised but I couldn’t find my way out. I didn’t even know if I was lying in a London cemetery or if I was in France. I couldn’t smel anything but mud and rain, and the darkness that should have been complete seemed less than it was. I couldn’t see clearly, of course, but I could catch the odd root, the pale white of parsnips, and the scuttle of blue-tinged beetles.

I screamed until I tasted blood in the back of my throat and stil no one heard me.

And I wasn’t hungry, not once.

The thirst, however, was maddening. It clawed at me like a burning desperate beast, raked across my throat, scorching al the way down into my bel y. My veins felt withered in my arms. I was beyond weak, beyond alive, beyond dead. In a moment of clarity, I felt the wound of sharp teeth on my neck, felt a mouth suckling there until I was limp as a rag dol . And then the merest taste of blood smeared on my lips, which made me gag, or would have, if I’d had the strength. And it tasted like the wine Greyhaven had given me.