Dream Breakers, Oath Takers

by Jacqueline Jayne

  “Sit, and I will explain everything.”

  “I don’t want to sit. I want freedom. I want my mind back.” Anxiety high, her knees threatened to buckle.

  “You have your mind, child. Your very gifted and complex mind is intact.”

  “No. It’s not.” Close to hysteria, she writhed free. “I’m going to be like Mom. I feel it.”

  “Absolutely not. You possess all the qualities your mother lacked. Confidence, self-worth, and most of all, a keen sense of logic. You may be artistic, but you’re savvy too. If you want your freedom, you’ll have some choices to make.” She held up a crooked index finger. “Choices I’ve tried to make for you. But I see now, you won’t get better, won’t be able to fight the visions unless you take charge.”

  “How?” The pit of her stomach dropped like she dreaded the answer.

  “All I can do is supply family history. The path to freedom is better explained by your cowboy.”

  The comment rocked Delphine to the core. Knees close to giving out, she leaned on the kitchen counter for support. “Zane? I don’t understand.”

  “I made some phone calls while you worked last night. Your cowboy is far from ordinary.”

  “What does that mean?” Her heart pounded hard. Last night had been the best date in years. Maybe in her life. She didn’t want to hear she’d misread Zane.

  “Don’t fret. He’s a good man. A very good man, in fact. But his story is his to tell.” Her grandmother beseeched her with determined eyes. The soft nurturing Delphine had come to rely on had evaporated. “And we need to attend to our story first. Sit. Drink the tea. It will calm you. It’s mostly bourbon.”

  “Bourbon? For breakfast?”

  “It’s well after twelve. But time of day never matters. When you need a stiff one, you take it. I have an entire history to cover in a short amount of time. Maurice will be calling soon, and he isn’t going to like what I tell him.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I’ll get to that. Now please, my knees can’t take standing much longer.” Mamie hobbled to her chair and sat with a thud.

  Though tempted to run, Delphine turned into the kitchen and leaned on the counter to think. She panted like she ran the length of the Champs-Élysées. Much as she wanted to sluice off the night and then go for a long, long walk, her curiosity and resentment overtook her fear. She couldn’t imagine Mamie in any way other than supportive, yet she’d just confessed—to what exactly?

  Delphine needed to know more than she needed comfort.

  She grabbed the kitchen towel hanging from a drawer handle and dropped it over the bust. It didn’t conceal it, covering little more than the nasty horns, but it would do for now.

  Slipping into the vacant kitchen chair, she lifted the teapot using both hands, one hand flush to the warm quilted cozy, and poured out a cup.

  “The bourbon is sweet. No need for sugar,” her grandmother instructed. “Just drink.”

  Good advice.

  One sip, two sips, three.

  The blaring sun through the bare window and the warmth of the tea seeped into all the places tight with tension. She wasn’t relaxed, but ready.

  She set down the cup, meeting her grandmother’s hooded, unreadable gaze.

  “I know you found your mother’s diary. Did you understand any of it?”

  “Not much. It’s mostly a bunch of disconnected ramblings.” She sighed. “Tell me about her. How did she go insane? Why am I going insane?” A humorless chortle burst out. “And how is it your fault?”

  Her grandmother winced. “It is all connected—the way ripples in a pool become waves in the ocean.” She folded one hand over the other and rubbed at her knuckles. “First I will tell you about you.” Mamie paused. “And Camille.”

  “Camille? Why?”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but that monstrosity on the floor is some of your best work. It is masterful—”

  “And hideous,” she said, though even she recognized the truth in Mamie’s statement. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Because you inherited not only Camille’s immense talent,” she settled a sober, serious gaze on her granddaughter, “but also her spiritual obligation.”

  Chapter Eleven

  For the first time in many months—hell, years—Emil Savard walked lighter in his dress shoes. Flat out happy, today he didn’t even mind dodging the inconsiderate tourists crowding the sidewalk along the Boulevard Des Invalides at the museum’s east border.

  By the grace of God, an oracle with active visions had been located. And Vipond called him into his office for a discussion on how they should proceed.

  Of course, he called.

  Protocol dictated Vipond counsel with Luckett first, but Savard shared a history with the Paris chancellor unlike anyone else. They bonded close as brothers, if not actual friends, and relied on mutual support. That support engineered a future where they both held the highest positions of authority. At least on the Paris Council.

  And in Paris, he possessed the power, not the rogue American contingent.

  The staff entrance of the cafe appeared on his right. He removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket to grasp the handle and then pushed inside. A moment later, he emerged from the space directly behind the main counter into sunlight dappled by shade trees. The rich aroma of fresh, brewed coffee and the chatter of many conversations greeted him.

  So did a most unwelcome sight.

  He stopped dead beside the display of pastries, mouth agape.

  “Mornin’, Emil.” Chancellor Luckett stood at the counter, decked out in what was probably his best plaid shirt and faded denim jeans. His short gray hair was combed off his face and parted on the side. “Ready to hunker down and figure all this out?”

  Every muscle in Savard’s body turned to stone, and he fought to keep his facial expression placid.

  The young woman behind the counter grinned broadly and handed Luckett a paper bag. “Here you go. Keep it real, Jack.”

  Keep it real? Savard rolled his eyes to the sky. Was he the only person that saw through the American’s down-as-dirt performance? He even resented the way the girl purposefully pronounced his name as Jack not Jacques, a betrayal of the highest order.

  “I will. Thank you, Olivie,” he said, not even attempting any French in return, and accepted the sack.

  How could Vipond have blind-sided him by inviting this—simpleton?

  “Gonna be a hot one.” Luckett motioned with his head for Savard to join him on the walk to Maurice’s office.

  “Oui.” Unable to refuse, he fell into step beside the robust older man and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Inside and out.”

  “True that, as the kids say.” Luckett reached into the sack and withdrew a small red apple. “On one hand, I can hardly believe our good fortune.” He gestured with the fruit and then bit a hole into it. After a few noisy chomps, he pocketed the mouthful into his cheek and finished his thought. “On the other, we’ve got our work cut out for us.” He bit again and walked even faster.

  What did he mean—work cut out for us? The American assumed Vipond already filled him in, and he wasn’t about to indicate otherwise.

  “I assure you, I’ve aided many neophytes in the transition to oracle, Monsieur Luckett.”

  “Jack or Jacques, please.”

  Savard simply nodded, though he had no intention of becoming familiar, let alone friendly.

  More apple disappeared while Luckett walked as if they competed in a race. “Look, I’m sure you’re very competent, but this situation is going to call for a great deal of delicacy. Solange is extremely upset. I hope to hell she doesn’t show up at the meeting.”

  “Oui,” he agreed, though he didn’t have any idea why. The best way to gather information is to pretend understanding rather than admit complete ignorance. “Maybe she’s calmed down.”

  “And maybe it’ll snow today.” Luckett dug his teeth in for the las
t bite of apple and then opened the bag and deposited the core inside. He crinkled the top in his big fist.

  Savard nodded and pried a little more. “Then you are well acquainted with Madame Claudel.”

  They emerged from the shade of the tree-lined path and into the open where the scorching sun beat down on the Hotel Biron.

  “Very. Don’t get me wrong. I like her a lot. Who doesn’t? But Solange is—individual, let’s say.”

  “And on the Council as a courtesy in large part because of her husband’s money. She’s not gifted, and in my opinion, has no business interfering with our work.”

  “Hold on there.” Luckett rounded in front of him and stopped. “First off, Solange has dedicated her entire life to the Society.”

  “Yet she sent her daughter away to keep her from becoming one of us. That’s not exactly the definition of dedication.”

  “You can’t fault Solange for wanting to protect her daughter. I’ve been there. I understand.”

  “And look at how that turned out.”

  Luckett’s face flushed deep red, and not from the oppressive heat. A fact Savard rather enjoyed.

  “I’ve already admitted my mistakes to the Council. But that’s neither here nor there. Gifted or not, Solange’s one-eighty proves her loyalty and her understanding of how dire we’ve become.”

  “One-eighty?” He pretended not to understand the phrase.

  “Turned around. Changed her mind.” Luckett shook his head. “She could have done the same with her granddaughter, sent her away, but instead she told her everything. Explained that her nightmares are actually visions. That she’s—”

  “The new oracle?” The question slipped out before Savard could call it back, but a hundred more formulated instantly. When had Gabrielle become pregnant? Back in the States? Or before?

  “Yeah.” Luckett narrowed his gaze, furrowing his bushy brows. “Maurice didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” Anything other than an honest answer might get him booted out of the meeting.

  To his surprise, Luckett offered up an excuse. “I suppose he wants to keep that information private seeing’s how Delphine refused.”

  So Gabrielle named her daughter Delphine after Delphi, where the oracle presided at the Temple of Apollo. How could she have known her baby would possess such a gift? And why had Delphine refused? Unwittingly, he verbalized his last thought.

  “Flat out. The girl’s scared and is as stubborn as her granny. Solange thinks she can be persuaded, and so do I. I discussed a plan with Maurice yesterday, and he’s agreed.”

  “Persuade? The gift she carries doesn’t belong to her. It belongs to us. To Hell Runners. She is obligated.”

  “No, she’s not. None of us are. We are blessed with gifts and abilities to use as we see fit. When someone joins the Society, their gifts are an offering. Given out of free will. The whole of Heaven and Earth functions on free will. We can’t force her to help.”

  “But we can. I’ve done it before. A few days of sedatives and the subject acquiesces.” He snapped his fingers. “Baptism by fire.”

  “Sedatives? No! Christ!” Luckett stomped in circles and continued cursing despite the stares of strangers. “How could you even think of such a thing?”

  “Think and invented. Many that are called are afraid. Fear is a simple state of mind and easily overcome when faced head-on. Medication speeds the process. If a subject—”

  “Person,” the older man spat. “Human beings, not subjects.”

  “Pardon. Forgive me if I don’t understand your reluctance. A human being—one of our best operatives—a man from your division, no less,” Savard poked an index finger into the air, a fraction of an inch shy of Luckett’s chest, “is out there, and we need to find him. Not to mention, we need to see beyond, to know how to proceed with future missions. Time is critical.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” Luckett knocked his hand away. He looked like he wanted to punch something, so Savard stepped back. “But she can’t be bullied. She needs guidance. To understand that she can control how she receives the visions.”

  “Foolishness. I demand we—”

  “That’s not how we’re handling this, Emil.” Vipond appeared from behind Luckett. “I’ve already made my decision.”

  “Your decision?” His rage increased by the second. “So this wasn’t a discussion, but a—”

  “A meeting to inform you, oui. To keep you in the loop.”

  “In the loop?” More American colloquialisms. Luckett’s influence needed to be stopped.

  “Tomorrow, we will announce the situation to the Council. At that time, Mr. Gideon will be advised of his new assignment. He’s the best oracle instructor in the entire Society and already at our disposal.”

  “Gideon? You must be kidding?” The shock of someone else being named above him removed the controls from his mouth. He cursed the cowboy in French.

  “Zane’s exceptionally talented and patient,” Luckett said, a lot calmer now that Vipond stood beside him. “There hasn’t ever been a need for bullying—”

  “I know all about Mr. Gideon and his many talents.” Savard spewed with all the venom built up over the last ten minutes. He’d studied all of the rogue American’s files before the hearing commenced. “Or his lack of them. He chose to have his oracle gift removed.”

  “To strengthen his other gifts.”

  “You say strengthen, I say coward. His soft American upbringing couldn’t withstand the harsh messages from the other side.”

  “Stop acting like a child.” Vipond moved closer and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Mr. Gideon faultlessly runs into Hell on a daily basis and is one of the few to have ventured as deep as the Ninth Ring.”

  “Because he’s reckless. Our Society, the Society established right here in this very building, is shut down thanks to the antics of the Americans.” He glared at Luckett. “They should all be sent packing and their branch shut down.”

  “I’m warning you, Emil.”

  Savard didn’t care for Maurice’s threat or the tone of his voice. They were equals despite Vipond’s title. “If Mr. Gideon cannot convince the oracle, we’ve wasted time. How will we know our next course of action without an oracle? How will we know what God wants without that vital connection? What I propose is practical and expedient. Within a week, she will understand all the good she can do. By the end of the second week, she will be fully trained.”

  “Two weeks?” Luckett exploded. “On sedatives?”

  “You cannot judge what you don’t understand.”

  “I understand just fine. You’re a manipulative little weasel.” The American’s face contorted in outrage. “There’s no way in hell I’m ever gonna let you touch that girl.”

  “Have no doubt. If Mr. Gideon cannot do his job, I will take over. And I won’t need your permission to do it.”

  Vipond didn’t respond, and Savard watched with glee as Luckett’s gaze drifted to his old friend.

  “Maurice?”

  “Let’s see what happens, Jacques. I’m sure Mr. Gideon—”

  “Son. Of. A. Bitch.” Jack crunched the paper sack and its contents between his big hands. “You’ve done this before. If I wasn’t here, you’d do it again.”

  “It works, and as you know, oracles are hard to come by.”

  “Inexcusable.”

  “Is it, Jacques? Where would we be without the visions? How would we find the lost?”

  “We ain’t lookin’ for lost anymore.”

  “No. We are not.” Vipond raised his eyebrows in accusation. “In fact, we don’t know what we’re doing.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Luckett turned on his heel and stomped off in the direction they’d come.

  Once the American disappeared in the shadows of the trees, Savard returned his gaze to Vipond and spoke in his native tongue.

  “Are we truly waiting for Mr. Gideon to work his alleged magic?”

  “Oui.”

  “For ho
w long?”

  A moment of silence passed between them, as taut as the memories that connected them.

  “Until Mr. Gideon fails.”

  “That won’t take long.”

  His old friend sighed. “I’m afraid you might be right.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Seated once again in the conference room, Zane stared out the window to the gardens, weaving a daydream.

  Last night definitely hit his top ten best dates list, and it hadn’t even ended tangled in the sheets. When was the last time he discussed art at length with a woman? Had argued the probability of Rodin’s The Age of Bronze being cast from a real man and not crafted. Had been one hundred percent himself.

  Shit. Never.

  Of course, that had been of his own doing. For some reason, he got stuck in his head that strictly dating non-gifted women meant settling for pretty, immature, and shallow.

  No wonder he always ended up a little empty.

  No wonder he filled that emptiness with work.

  No wonder Delphine wanted nothing to do with him when he’d used the dog to score.

  Can’t be disappointed if someone doesn’t like you if you aren’t you.

  But he rectified his mistake last night, and in the process broke through her reserved façade.

  He closed his eyes to shut out everything but the memory. The sunlight burned a dappled image of the grounds behind his lids.

  Yesterday had been perfect. Even their argument, which she enjoyed as much as his kisses even if she never admitted it. That stance loaded with pure indignance and the heat glowing in her eyes only primed her for letting go. And when she let go, Zane understood the value of the prize she offered. He could still feel her lips melding to his and the way her body arched into his middle at the slightest pressure. A cool countenance to disguise the heat simmering beneath.

  Tonight he’d take that prize and cherish her. Leave them both with memories delicious enough to withstand time and distance.

  “You okay, bro?”

  Boone kicked the back of his chair, jolting him into reality.

  “Yeah.” He grinned at his brother. “Just chillin’.” A premature thought crossed his mind. Keeping his voice low, he asked a question he’d usually been asked by Boone. “You mind bunkin’ with Jesse and Prudence tonight?”