Dreamveil

“And?”



“You and the other humans who were made Kyndred were experimented on when you were children,” he reminded her. “For the man you met tonight to be my . . . progeny, he would have to have been a young child. No more than six years old.”



“Shit.” She threw down her jacket, disgusted with herself. “I hate this. I hate not knowing what they’re doing, what they’ve done. . . .” She rubbed her forehead. “All right, so being Kyndred is off the table—for now,” she added, glaring at him. “We still need to find him and see if he is the descendant of a Cyprien who wasn’t busy slaying Saracens back in the day.”



“But why?”



“That man could be walking around with your human DNA,” she told him. “If I’m ever going to figure out how the pathogen works, I need to look at both sides of the equation. He may still carry in his body the immunities and genetic anomalies that allowed you to survive the initial infection.”



“All right. He did not tell you his last name? Did you notice where he was sitting in the auditorium?” After she answered no to both questions, Michael went to the phone and placed a call to one of his human friends in the city, who called back a short time later.



Michael listened, thanked the caller, and hung up before turning to Alex. “None of the tickets sold for tonight’s performance were purchased by a man with the Christian name Jean-Marc.”



Alex swore as she dropped onto the sofa and covered her face with her hands. After she reined in her temper, she looked over her fingertips at Michael. “Can we run a check on guys named Jean-Marc in the city?”



“Of course we can.” He sat down beside her. “It is not a common name, so it should only take a few months, perhaps a year, to interview each Jean-Marc living in the city. Assuming he resides here. Then we can check the Jean-Marcs living in New Jersey, and Washington, and work our way across the ocean to the Jean-Marcs living in France. I believe that will take more time.”



She chuckled. “If I asked you’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?”



Michael smiled and kissed her forehead. “You have but to say, mon coeur.”



“This is where I say ‘no, that’s okay,’ and I’ll let it go.”



“No.” He glanced at the pale light coming through the windows, and drew her to her feet. “This is when you say ‘I love you,’ take off my clothes, and come to bed with me.”



Surrendering to the inevitable and the pleasurable, Alexandra did just that. Just before they drifted off into the curious sleep of the Darkyn, she remembered something the man had said to her.



“Michael, what does un enfant trouvé mean?”



“It is a term used for children who are lost or abandoned, and cannot be returned to their family,” he told her.



“Orphans?”



“No, that is not quite the same. An orphan’s parents are dead, but the parents of un enfant trouvé are unknown.” He held her close. “I think the word in English is foundling.”



Chapter 13



Dansant tracked Rowan by her scent, and found her sitting on a bus stop bench some distance away from Lincoln Center. Anger followed his relief as he noticed a group of young men watching her from the opposite street corner, but it dissolved as soon as he saw the tears on her face.



“I should have listened to you,” he said carefully as he sat down beside her. “When you said you were not the opera type.”



“I’m not now, not after that.” She fiddled with one of her gloves. “Sorry I ran out on you. I just felt like I couldn’t breathe in that place.”



He kept an eye on the group of teenagers watching them as he took out his mobile and called for a cab. “We will try Broadway next time.”



She sat back against the hard slats of the bench. “There’s going to be a next time?”



“Many, I hope.” He took out his handkerchief, but instead of offering it to her went about drying her tears himself. Oddly, his fiercely independent Rowan didn’t resist. “But no more tragedies. A comedy, perhaps. Neil Simon.”



“Do you think Butterfly wanted to kill her kid, and just didn’t have the spine to do it?” she asked him suddenly.



He considered her question even as he wondered what had provoked it. “She is a passionate character, and her love for Pinkerton drove her to suicide. But her mother’s-love for her child would not have permitted her to harm the boy.”



“Mother’s-love.” She made a contemptuous sound. “I wish I believed in that.”



“Your mother must have had her reasons for abandoning you, Rowan. She may have been very young, or had no means to support you. She was probably very frightened.”



“Let’s say she wasn’t young,” Rowan countered. “And she had all the means in the world to support me. What if something else frightened her? Something about me. What if she thought I was evil?” She added, “What if she was right?”



“Do you remember your mother?”



“My birth mom?” She shook her head.



“Then how can you ask these questions?”



“Never mind.” She stood and looked at each end of the street. “Where is that damn cab? Maybe we should walk back to the Met.”



Dansant saw that the group of boys had now drifted from their corner across the street and were moving toward them. They moved casually enough, talking among themselves, but apparently with a definite purpose as they drew closer to the bus stop. “I think that would be wise.”



Unfortunately the narrow tailoring of Rowan’s gown didn’t allow her to take her customary long strides, and halfway back to Lincoln Center the group of teenagers caught up with them. Several passed Dansant, and then stopped and turned, sandwiching him and Rowan in the middle of their group.



“You got a dollar, pop?” one standing in the middle asked.



“Nice threads,” another one said, this time to Rowan. He reached out to touch her sleeve, and she shifted away. “Aw, she don’t like me.”



Dansant kept his gaze on the one in the middle. “Let us pass.”



“Pass what? Go?” The boy grinned and held out a hand. “That’ll cost you a wallet, pal.”



Another boy came up behind Rowan and tucked his face over her shoulder. “You for sale, baby, or just for rent?”



“Patrol cars come by here every ten minutes after a performance,” she informed the group at large. “Last one I saw was nine minutes ago.”



“Yeah, well, those cops, they go for coffee at midnight,” the one in the middle told her. “They won’t be back on the beat for a half hour.”



The one behind Rowan snickered. “Plenty of time for us to get to know each other.” He grabbed at her chest from behind, and she drove her elbow into his ribs, whirling around at the same time. He roared with pain, grabbing his midsection with one arm before he lashed out at her with the other, punching her in the face. Her head snapped back, and she rocked on her feet, but stayed upright.



“Rowan.” Dansant saw blood streaming from her nose, and felt the fury spread out inside him.



“I’m okay,” she said, curling her fists and moving to stand with her back to his.



The other boys laughed, and Dansant removed his wallet, holding it out. When the leader of the group tried to take it, he grabbed his wrist with his other hand. “You and your friends don’t want to harm us.”



The boy’s eyes darkened. “No, we don’t want to do that.”



He sent out his influence in a wide arc, encompassing the group. “You should forget about this and go back to your place on the corner.”



“Yeah. We should.” The boy’s voice sounded dreamy. “Come on, guys.”



The other boys followed their leader, and walked out into the street. They stopped only for a car whose driver hit the horn loud and long.



Dansant turned to Rowan, who was pressing her nose between her fingers. “Let me see.” He cradled her face.



“I don’t think it’s broken.” She held still as he used his handkerchief, this time to mop up the blood on her mouth and chin. “How did you do that? How did you make them go away like that?”



The blow to her face had prevented her from falling under his influence, or she might have gone with them. “I asked politely.”



She took her hand from her face. “There were ten of them and two of us. Under the circumstances, asking politely doesn’t work.”



“It did tonight.”



“Dansant, don’t snow me. You hypnotized them or something. All of them.” She rubbed her arms. “I could feel it.”



He seized on what she had said as an explanation. “The power of suggestion can be quite effective, even on large groups.” A cab stopped at the curb, and he put his arm around her. “Now I suggest we leave.”



As before, Rowan refused to go to the hospital, dismissing her injury as minor. He considered taking her back to his apartment for the night, but his living situation would raise too many questions. He directed the cabdriver to the restaurant, where he paid him before he escorted Rowan inside.



“You don’t have to stay with me,” she told him as she went to the rinsing sink and splashed her face with cold water to remove the last traces of blood. “I’ve been popped in the nose plenty of times.”



He felt a surge of relief as the scent of her blood vanished. “This is not how I envisioned the end of our evening together.”



She dried her mouth with a paper towel. “Just what were you envisioning, Jean-Marc? A private tour of my apartment?”



If only he had the time. “I have already seen it.”



“You know what I mean.” She threw away the crumpled towel and removed her hat, shaking her curls loose around her face. “You took me to the opera, which I could never afford to do on my own. You chased off those kids, and probably saved me from being gang-raped. You’ve definitely earned it. I’m willing.”

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