If Angels Burn

Michael stared into the officer's face. When the man's eyes glazed and his mouth went slack, he reached out and pressed his fingers to the side of his strong neck. "You will forget this incident, and go about your business."



The officer nodded and stepped back, his eyes clearing as he touched the rim of his hat. "You have a good evening, sir."



Michael picked up the phone.



"I do admire your talent, mon ami," Lucan said. "How tragic it only works on humans; otherwise you could make me forget about the little doctor."



Michael would kill Alexandra himself before he allowed Lucan to touch her. "The doctor is not part of this. You want me—you come after me."



"Tremayne might forgive me slipping the leash, but not the life of his surrogate son. Be assured, you I won't touch. However, if the little doctor means so much to you, you may do something for me."



"Get out of New Orleans and I won't kill you."



Lucan sniffed. "Something you can actually do, Michael."



He could trade insults with Lucan, or he could make Alexandra and the Kyn safe. Think as Tremayne would. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. "I will give you your own jardin."



"How generous, and inventive. I admit, I rather fancy these colonies, now that I've roamed them. Now to pick where." Lucan was silent for a moment. "Miami or Fort Lauderdale will do."



The Kyn living in the extreme southern state were scattered and few; they had never shown an inclination to join Tremayne's network. If Lucan wished to gather a jardin, it would be small, or he would have to import others from Europe. "Only if you bring in Kyn living in America now."



"I want a jardin, Michael, not a potted plant."



If it were left up to him, Michael wouldn't give him a blade of grass. However, Richard would be pleased to know Lucan was settled and doing something other than slitting throats, and Lucan might be controllable, from a distance.



"You will not filch warriors from Europe," Michael told him. "If you want a private army to challenge the throne, Lucan, you will have to build it from scratch. Take it or leave it."



"How well you know me." Lucan sighed. "All right, I will take it." His voice hardened. "Stay out of Florida, Michael."



"Out." Michael sat back against the seat and closed his eyes. He would not admit feeling relieved. Not yet. "You will leave New Orleans at once."



"As you wish, my king. Since you are so concerned with the welfare of your lady, perhaps I should mention that I am not the only one intrigued by her. Les bouchers have sent over one of their best to find you. Her name is Gelina." With another laugh, Lucan ended the call.



Michael thought of Alexandra, and how easily Lucan and Rome had made her into a weapon against him. This ends tonight.



He pulled back onto the road and drove home.



Phillipe was in his night-robe when he met Michael in the garage. Michael's nudity nearly made him drop the goblet he carried.



"Did she return?" At Phillipe's nod, Michael took the goblet and drained the blood-wine mixture from it. "You will bring her to me."



"I do not think she wishes to see you, Master." Phillipe shrugged out of his robe and handed it to him. "I would compel her to come out, if she were still human."



"She is." Michael threw the goblet at the nearest wall. The dregs of blood-wine exploded, a burst of red on white plaster. "She's still human. No," he tacked on when Phillipe turned to reenter the house. "I don't want her compelled."



His seneschal studied his face. "Forgive me, Master, but what do you want of her?"



Michael wanted her gone. He wanted her loyalty. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted her safe.



"Lock her in and summon the jardin." He strode into the house.



As he dressed in his chamber, Michael brooded on Alexandra. Her room was only a few doors away; she might be unwilling to come out, but she could not keep him from coming in. If Lucan had stayed in the house… Michael could kill her for the position she had put him in with Richard's rogue assassin. For the humiliation of what she had done to him. For the unnatural things she had done to herself.



It had been months since Michael had called his Kyn together. As suzerain, he had the right to summon the jardin at his whim; hourly, if he chose. He preferred to exercise the privilege only when there was a true threat to the Kyn.



Right now Phillipe would be sending out the summons to nearly all the houses for a five-block radius around La Fontaine. The occupants would be descending down into secret basements that weren't supposed to exist in New Orleans, and walking through the tunnels that had once concealed Kyn and runaway slaves alike. It had taken the engineers, architects, and geologists almost a century to stabilize the ground-water and build the labyrinthine network of tunnels and chambers beneath the Garden District. Another century to erase all trace of their existence from the minds of human beings.



Michael could feel the Kyn gathering beneath the mansion, in the sublevel only he and Phillipe knew how to enter.



After he dressed, Michael followed his own private passage to the sublevel, which was three times as large as the house above. All the Kyn within reach of the summons stood waiting his commands.



"Thank you for attending me." He looked out at the sea of impassive, immortal faces above the dazzling white tunics. "We are being hunted again, my friends."



Gelina followed John Keller back to his hotel and, once she was sure he was in for the night, returned to the house he had visited. From the street she could see Leann Pollock through the windows. She was sitting on her sofa eating chips and reading through some papers. She had claimed not to know where Keller's sister was, but judging from the conversation Gelina had monitored via her small, dish-shaped transceiver, she could be lying.



Gelina would soon find out.



After she made a check of the neighbors and the perimeter, Gelina slipped behind the house and disabled the rather flimsy security alarm box. The back door had no dead bolt or chain, and its single lock yielded easily to a screwdriver. The inside of the house was all lit up; lights were on in every room. Small night-lights in every other plug.



Afraid of the dark. Gelina went silently downstairs to where the main electric box was, and cut the power. Upstairs she heard soft swearing and smiled.



"I paid my bill on time," Leann was saying into the kitchen phone when Gelina came up behind her. "At least, I'm pretty sure I did. Can you check?" She sighed. "Yes, I'll hold."



Gelina watched her cradle the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could rummage through a drawer. Leann found a stubby candle and lit it with a match that shook along with her hand. The soft glow made the woman release a long, slow breath, and then she lifted the phone from her ear and put it back again. "Hello? Hello?" Terrified, Leann whirled around. "Who's there?"



Gelina dropped the phone cord she had cut and bent over to blow out the candle. "Did you make a wish?"



Chapter Nineteen



The only reason Alex was staying at La Fontaine was the Durands. This was what she told herself, and Phillipe when he came to let her out of her room. She also told him what she'd do to him if he locked her up again, and used hand gestures in case he didn't follow the English.



Instead of being intimidated, he gave her a slightly exasperated look. "Alexandra, you need calm. Go, do your work."



Setting up to perform the various procedures and surgeries the Durand family required took only a few hours. Heather, who had recovered from the attack, turned out to have considerable experience in and out of the operating room. The fact that she had been raped and nearly drained by one of the things they were operating on didn't upset her at all. Thanks to whatever Cyprien had done to Heather's mind, she had no memory of the attack.



"When this is over, he better know how to turn you back into a normal person," Alex grumbled as she scrubbed. "With grouchy moods and PMS and a bad temper."



"But, Doctor, I never had PMS before I came here."



"Shut up, Heather."



Since the Kyn were slower to heal during the day, Alex decided to split the surgeries into two nightly sessions. "We'll work on Jamys after sunset, and start on Thierry around midnight." Alex dictated the surgical protocols to Heather and outlined what she would need for the first setups.



"I'll make out a procedure schedule and requisition what you need, Doctor." She floated off to prep the exam table, humming a little under her breath.



Alex had Phillipe and the boys move what she needed up from the basement to a large room on the first floor, so she could begin the work on Jamys without his having to see his father. Liliette came with the boy that first night and politely demanded to know exactly what would be done to her great-nephew.



Alex went over the techniques she had first perfected on Cyprien, and explained how the muscles of his back could be restored by seeding the damaged areas with grafts from his thigh muscles. The grafts would act as scaffolds, upon which his accelerated immune system would build new muscle tissue.



"All I know of doctors is that they were dirty, drunken men who were inordinately fond of leeches." She shook her head before she went over to kiss Jamys's cheek.



"We've made some progress since then." As Heather positioned the instrument trays, Alex gently led the old lady to the door. "I'll be out to tell you how it went as soon as we're through here."



Once Liliette left, Alex scrubbed, and then took out a syringe of prepared blue salt solution. Heather already had Jamys stretched out on his stomach and on a whole-blood IV. The boy didn't react to anything, so she couldn't tell if he was worried or not.



"This is going to help you go to sleep," she told him, "so you won't feel anything."



He only stared at the door, and didn't even blink when Alex injected him. Then his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed.



His reactions bothered her on a couple of levels. Marcel and Liliette had shown a healthy amount of fear toward her and her instruments. Given the amount of trauma he'd suffered, Jamys should have been jumpy as a jackrabbit on methamphetamines, particularly around a stranger who intended to mess with his body. Instead, the boy treated Alex—and everyone else, she was noticing—as if they were invisible.