“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 know how to use it,” Izzy said steadily, even though that was pretty much a lie. But she wasn’t giving up her weapon to anyone.
Louise sighed and handed it over. Then she gathered up her hair and pulled on a black knit cap like Izzy’s. Mathilde did the same. They slipped on tight-fitting jackets. Louise handed one to Izzy. When she put it on, static electricity shocks went off like a trail of gunpowder.
Louise and Mathilde reached into their duffels and pulled out heavy-looking, webbed vests. Body armor. As Louise held one out, Mathilde stretched her arms through the armholes. Then she turned around and Louise fanned her fingers. There was a snick and Louise said, “You’re bolted.”
Mathilde did the same for her, down to the “bolting.” Then Louise retrieved a third vest for Izzy.
“If you need to get the vest off in a hurry, say this word. I’ll spell it for you,” Louise said. “T-e-r-m-i-n-u-s. Do you speak Latin?”
“Not really,” Izzy allowed. “I’ve heard a little. I’m Catholic,” she added.
The two women stopped moving and stared at her. Mathilde paled, while Louise blinked rapidly, her lips parting in shock.
Now what? Izzy wondered. They must have their own religion. Maybe I’m supposed to be their pope or something.
The moment passed—or rather, the agents chose to ignore it. Izzy put on knee pads. They checked each other out, running through a verbal checklist as each of them touched their pockets and verified possession of things they described in jargon: les sploders, wire, poprocks, choses, malfacteus .
When they were finished, Louise crossed over to Sauvage and said, “It’s showtime.”
“Oh, my God, I’m so freaked out,” Sauvage murmured to Ruthven. Then she kissed her young boyfriend hard on the lips and minced over to the bed in her heeled boots. She sat on the edge of the mattress. “Do I need to take off my clothes?”
“It doesn’t matter either way,” Louise said.
“Okay,” Sauvage whispered as she lay down on the bed. Ruthven backed away. Mathilde and Louise made motions over Sauvage’s body. White light poured from their hands and spread over Sauvage like a sheet, throbbing and pulsing all over her body. One moment Sauvage was Sauvage…and the next…
She didn’t look exactly like Izzy. She had Izzy’s black cloud of hair, her dark eyes and freckles, but she looked more like a close relative than Izzy herself. Still, if the lights were lowered, and she pretended to be asleep, she could probably pass.
Louise ticked her glance to Izzy. “It’s not as sophisticated as a Devereaux glamour.”
“No one does glamours as well as the Devs,” Mathilde said, an envious half smile quirking her face as she bent down beside her duffle and gathered up a fistful of crucifixes.
“Let me see,” Sauvage demanded, hopping out of the bed and trotting to the full-length mirror at the foot of the bed. She posed, frowned. “Hey. I don’t look that much like you at all.”
“Maybe we should go with a fabricant,” Louise mused as she crossed her arms and followed Sauvage’s gaze into the mirror. “We could probably get a closer match.”
Fabricants