“Not true.” Zane refused to be riled. “In fact the Hell Runners Handbook has needed an overhaul for some time. Some rules have become outdated simply because our training program produces educated Soul Savers. I believe this incident presents an opportunity to expand our missions, to—”
“Expand?” Savard snorted. “We have nothing left to expand, thanks to you.”
“I totally disagree.” Zane aimed his gaze at Vipond. “Rodin wouldn’t have kicked back and given up. Don’t you think it’s time we consider objectives beyond rescuing the lost souls of the First Ring? We’re all trained with the worst case scenario in mind. Let’s take advantage of this time to reexamine—”
“No need to editorialize any further, Monsieur Gideon.” Savard cut him off again. “The rule is a clear statement, not an excuse to manipulate the Council. You are lucky to be present at this table. I encourage you to respect the chance to hear our verdict first hand.”
Verdict?
In less than the time it took for Zane’s heart to slam into his breastbone, Savard recommenced his verbal scolding of the Philadelphia Soul Savers.
Heat crept up his neck. Not out of shame, but entirely out of anger. Until this moment, he’d not considered the worst.
Termination without a probe or a trial or a chance to fully explain.
If they cut him loose, his subsequent trip to track Eymard surely died with his career. He’d waited years for the chance to uncover more secrets about Hell that the sainted priest surely documented. Did the French even have a plan? Or would they simply steal his.
“The consequences of your spontaneous actions affect us all. Every one of you deliberately ignored the rules.” Savard spoke in an accent so thick it sounded fake. He aimed his glare at each of them, as if he could intimidate field operatives that just browbeat the worst demon of the Ninth Ring. “Insubordination will no longer be tolerated. Neither will lies. No more glossing over the facts. We demand to know the whereabouts of Wilder Swift.”
Swift? Because he’d gone missing during the rescue didn’t mean any of them heard a word from him since. He’d adopted a habit of going off grid over the past six months or so. Apparently, Jack never shared that tidbit with the French, and Zane wondered why not.
“Every one of you involved in the—incident—” Savard’s heavily lidded eyes flickered with irritation “—will be required to prove your loyalty to Hell Runners if you want to remain with the Society.”
Not terminated. Not shut down for good. Zane almost blew out a sigh of relief.
The French councilman’s pale lips curved into a smug-ass grin, and his beady-eyed gaze swung to Zane. “And I’m sure you all want to keep your jobs. Maintain hope of moving onto the Council? I am correct, Mr. Gideon?”
His twin brother, Boone, rocked back on two legs of his chair and whispered from the corner of his mouth, “Which Mr. Gideon?”
“You wanna Council seat?”
“Never.” His brother smirked.
“Not you.”
By this time, Savard rounded the long conference table, his glare never moving off Zane.
Unnerved as much as pissed off, he matched the Frenchman’s stare. Obviously, Savard wanted to deliver bad news.
Savard reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a sheet of folded paper. With a flick of his wrist, the paper snapped to full size just above Zane’s face. “This is your signature, oui?” His arm extended and his fingers released. The crisp paper floated to land open on the table.
Uneasy and trying not to show it, Zane glanced down at the page. He didn’t need to read the grainy copy of the oath he’d signed, but he did anyway. There had to be at least one ambiguous phrase he could twist to his advantage.
I, Zane Gideon, as a human gifted with the ability to pass through the Gates of Hell and duly trained to dodge demons and their minions, pledge my undying loyalty to the Hell Runners Society. I freely offer my gifts to be used and governed by the Society in any way deemed fit by the Council. I understand the objectives of my duties as I have been trained, which include, but are not limited to the following tenets:
a.) To locate souls chosen by the oracles of the Society and free them from damnation.
b.) To ensure unholy creatures do not escape the boundary of the Gates.
c.) To maintain complete secrecy about the Society and its members.
d.) To disclose any and all violations that place the Society and its members in danger.
Duly sworn, I hereby affix my signature as my binding oath to uphold these tenets.
Shit. With his thoughts too muddled by anger, he couldn’t find one phrase to subvert in his favor.
Throat dry like he’d eaten another stale croissant, he answered at last.
“Yes. It’s my signature.”
“Then I trust no further explanation is necessary. Your trip to research Julian Eymard is suspended. You have a new assignment. Report to the Paris Gate site immediately. Do not let anyone, not even tourists, near it. Stand guard until I send your replacement.”
“Stand guard? You’re demoting me?”
Savard leaned close and placed an item on the table. “You’ll need this.”
At first glance, the black gun with the futuristic square nose appeared to be a toy, but his trained eye knew better. His gut tightened.
A Taser. Police issue.
“Use it. Without prejudice.” The smirk of satisfaction on Savard’s face could have curdled milk. “No one. Not your friends. Not Chancellor Luckett. Not even me.” He pressed his deep blue tie against his gray pinstriped shirt with a long-fingered hand. “No one passes through the Gates of Hell. Again.”
He walked away with his sharp nose tilted up.
Zane picked up the Taser and considered the penalties for shooting a councilman in the back.
Realistically, his choices had narrowed to two—follow orders or quit.
He glanced at Jack Luckett sitting across from him. The gray eyes of the Philadelphia big-cheese brimmed with understanding.
Yep. He had known this was coming and couldn’t say anything. A lot of not saying, not sharing, not communicating was going around. Like a virus.
“Go on, son.” Jack tilted his chin down and flashed a quick wink. “We got it handled in here. I’ll be by to get you ’fore long.”
Most likely a lie. Well intended, but a lie all the same.
Before he’d set foot on the plane bound for the east coast, his father had warned him that folks in high towers spewed a lot of horseshit. A Montana cowboy either watched where he planted his boot or learned to scrape it off and move on.
Move on, meaning tough it out?
Or move home where people meant what they said?
A pang of longing for high skies and jagged mountains and family he could trust washed over him like an instant fever.
Zane gripped the handle of the gun and swung a glare toward Savard.
Chapter Two
On mornings the board for the Museé Rodin met, Delphine Claudel noticed her grandmother walked with a great deal more assurance. A good thing since Delphine illegally parked the Audi next to the sidewalk on the Boulevard Des Invalides so her mamie didn’t have as far to walk. But she still worried. Overconfidence on arthritic knees risked a fall. A broken bone would be traumatic to the eternally vibrant Solange Claudel.
“Not so fast, Mamie,” she said, fumbling to extract the wheeled walker from the backseat of the car. “You’re forgetting this.”
Mamie pulled a face not unlike a stubborn child. The first hundred times she’d eye-rolled at the walker, Delphine found it amusing. Now it bordered on annoying.
“I’ve got my cane, dear. I’ll be fine.” Mamie turned on her square-heeled pumps and sauntered toward the museum’s main entrance, the tip of her cane not even touching the pavement.
“It’s not fine.” With a flick of her wrist, Delphine snapped the brackets into place, the clanking punctuating her mood. “I crossed an ocean to help you, and that’s what I int
end to do.” In a few short steps, she overtook her grandmother.
Mamie stopped, her expression the epitome of regal calm. Brown eyes as large and soft as a doe’s emanated motherly warmth—the kind of warmth Delphine never received from her own mother. “You do. You cook delicious meals. You drive me whenever and wherever I please. You listen to my stories half the night with more patience than any of my ex-husbands. And I love you for it. But today, I don’t need your help.”
“Are you worried the board will replace you if they see you using a walker?”
Mamie scoffed and offered up another eye roll. “The board can’t let me go. They need my money.”
“Then use the walker or let me help you inside. The steps are concrete and—”
“You can’t go inside.” Mamie blanched as white as her blouse.
“Can’t? Even for a few minutes? Surely the board won’t mind—”
“It’s not the board.” The color returned to her face in a charming blush. “Oh, Delphine.” She sighed wistfully and then grinned like a schoolgirl. “There is a very handsome gentleman with hair the color of spun silver and a sensual mouth—”
“Got it.” Delphine waved a hand for her grandmother to cease explaining.
Of course she ignored her granddaughter’s request.
“If he can do to me with those lips what he does to words, well—”
“Okay. Okay.” In the short month since she’d moved from New York to Paris, her grandmother proved to be more a horny teenager than matron of the arts.
“If I’m seen with you helping me get around or using that awful contraption, well the impression will be that I’m too old to be an attentive lover. Too feeble to get on top and ride him like—”
“Really, Mamie?” Delphine squeezed her eyes shut as if that would destroy the visual.
“There’s no shame in girl talk.”
“Yeah, between drunk friends. You’re my grandmother.”
“And your friend. If you want to share a drink, I’ve nothing against a little wine glow any time of day.” She winked. “Except right now. Go. I’ll be fine. Park the car and enjoy the grounds. Nurture your artistic gift. Do some sketches, you know you want to. Take care of my baby boy too.” She blew a kiss at the car.
On cue, the little dog yipped and pawed at the backseat window.
“Just don’t come inside after me.” She shuffled around Delphine. “I’ll find you when it’s time to go.” With a wave of her hand, she took off at a surprising speed.
Delphine watched her grandmother saunter away, her gait slow as much from her outfit as her knees. For whatever reason, it didn’t seem to matter to Mamie that the skirt hugged her full hips too tightly or the jacket didn’t close over her ruffled blouse. All things considered, maybe that was the point. Her hourglass figures may be a little wider, but she still flaunted her powerful femininity.
The first battle of the day lost, Delphine closed the walker and returned to the car.
Chapter Three
Much as he wanted to wake up on the ranch, Zane couldn’t go home. Metaphorical horseshit might take longer to scrape off his boot than the real thing, but he would do it. The greater good counted on him to stick around.
More than a little steamed, Zane pushed back from the table. Taser in hand, he stomped out of the conference room without a “yes, sir” or a “kiss my ass.” His boots clomped on the marble floor as he crossed the expanse of the otherwise silent Museé Rodin. He tore the tie from around his neck and headed for the side exit of the Hotel Biron, main building of the Paris museum grounds.
Spying a trashcan near the side door, he wrapped the tie around the Taser and chucked the mess into it from fifteen feet away. The resounding clunk gave him at least a little satisfaction. Barely slowing his pace, he kicked the side door wide open with the bottom of his boot and burst out into the early morning.
The blinding August sun slapped him in the face as hard as the news of his re-assignment.
Harder still, he collided with someone moving damn near as fast as he was.
A blur of dark hair swirled beneath his nose as he took a shoulder to the chest.
“Hey.” Something heavy whacked him in the leg and fell onto his left foot. If he hadn’t been wearing his boots, it might have actually hurt. He shook his foot free and stepped back. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Pardon me for not having better peripheral vision.” Her voice cut through the heavy air like a strain of familiar music, even laced with sarcasm. American with only a hint of a French accent. “Merde,” she muttered, stooping to gather her things.
More focused, he could now see who and what had hit him so hard.
A white tank top clung to her golden skin from the shoulders to her waist where a shirt had been tied by its long sleeves. Even doubled over, he could see she was tall and lithe. And apparently strong. She’d been lugging two sizeable canvas totes plus a handbag of impressive proportions.
An array of small paint brushes and pencils had spilled across the sidewalk like twigs after a storm. She grabbed with lightning reflexes to keep them from rolling away.
He sighed. The mess she anxiously cleaned up was his fault.
“Look. I’m sorry.” He moved toward her. “This is my—”
“Don’t take another step.”
“Hey. I’m not a creep. It was an—“
“Your boot is on my charcoal.” She scrambled the short distance between them duck-style and grabbed his boot by the ankle.
He relented and lifted.
“Got it.” She stood, head down, grabbing for one of the bags.
“Expensive?” He knew it wasn’t, but asked anyway.
“What?”
“Your charcoal.” He picked up the largest tote, trying to get a good look at the face behind the swinging curtain of black hair.
“No.” She took the bag from him with a firm jerk and then turned, giving him the impression she avoided eye contact all the time. “It leaves a mark when crushed.” She slung the long strap of the heavy bag over her head so it crossed her body, and then efficiently added the other two to her squared shoulders. “Thanks to Henri, there’s enough mess around here as it is.”
Henri? Another Soul Saver in deep shit?
Before he could ask, she was gone, speed-walking away from him.
Long, sculpted legs sun-kissed the same shade of gold as her shoulders disappeared underneath the tail of the shirt that hung over her ass like an ugly plaid skirt. Her bags of supplies jostled against the sway of her narrow hips, periodically bouncing off her rounded ass cheeks and luscious thighs.
Lucky bags.
He stood, hands in pockets, enjoying the view and considering who she might be. An out of work Soul Saver taking advantage of her time off to sketch made the most sense. A little pissed off too. At Henri for sure, but how much did she know about the incident back in Philly? Did she feel the same way as Savard?
For some reason, he wanted to know. Wanted the opinions of fellow Soul Savers from this side of the pond. Wanted to feel reassured in the decisions made on the fly by him and his crew.
But most of all, he wanted to study the face that belonged to those endless legs and perfect ass.
Screw guard duty. He broke into a lazy lope after her.
“Wait!” a raspy voice shouted.
Couldn’t he catch one small break today? Zane kept going, even though he recognized the voice behind him.
Prudence. She called again, and he heard the slap of her feet not far behind.
There’d be no chasing after the mystery woman now. He slowed but didn’t stop strolling.
“Please, Zane.” His spritely best friend caught up quickly.
“I’m done talking.” He didn’t bother to look down at her or cut his stride. “And done listening.”
“I know. I saw that look on your face and knew the moment you shut down. For a minute I thought you’d punch Savard and quit then and there.”
“Wished I had.”
“No, you don’t. More than anyone, you get the big picture. This stupid guard duty won’t be for long. Just a day or two, then you can take your trip to see if Saint Eymard left any clues about Rodin and Hell.”
“Yeah. Come on, man.” Right on cue, Jesse’s scuffle of boots on the garden path joined them. “It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” He snapped his head to glare at his old friend. “I’ve been reduced to border patrol like some Podunk deputy. With a Taser.”
“Where is the Taser, by the way?” Jesse pinched his dark brows together.
“Don’t worry. I chucked it.” Irked by the question, his gaze returned to the path taken by the mystery woman. She’d gone past the pond at the far end of the gardens where Rodin’s statue of Ugilino sat hunched for eternity. The opposite direction of the Gates. Resigned to letting her go, he forced a sigh through his nose. “You know I planned this excursion years ago. I’ve been awaiting approval…forever. We need to research Eymard as much as we need to find the rest of Heaven’s escape hatches.”
“Agreed. I’m hoping the intel you uncover helps find more of Heaven’s doors.” Prudence laid a hand on his arm gently, not her usual buddy punch to the biceps. “As soon as this debriefing—”
“Trial,” he said. “Why does everyone keep soft pedaling the truth? Hell, trial is being generous. Did you see the look in Savard’s eyes? This is an inquisition.”
“Whatever.” She shrugged as if the truth didn’t matter. “When it’s over, you’ll be on your way. No matter how snotty Savard treats us, they approved your trip because you’re the one that can give us direction. You’re the one with the foresight to research the origins of Rodin’s gift. We’re all counting on you. Savard knows that, and he’s jealous of you. Just like he’s jealous we saved Jack and closed the First Ring. This meeting has nothing to do with rules and everything to do with ego.”
Much as he wanted to stay mad, Prudence made a good argument.
A cleansing breeze swirled around them, filled with more freshness from the gardens than exhaust from the busy city streets only yards away. His anger dissipated, but not the questions that had nagged him for the past few hours.
Dream Breakers, Oath Takers Page 2
