Part 27 (1/2)

The symbols lost their color, glowing white.

”Your name,” Claire commanded.

”Jacques Labaet.” Squinting, he tossed shoulder length, dark-blond hair back off his face. ”And I am not at your service.” When he tried to stride forward, lines of power snapped him back between the symbols. Brows drew in over the bridge of a prominent nose. ”All right. Perhaps I am.”

”Give me your word you won't attack again, and I'll release you.”

”And if I do not?”

The symbols brightened. ”Exorcism.”

One hand raised to s.h.i.+eld his eyes, Jacques shook a chiding finger at her. ”You are a Keeper. You cannot do that. You have rules.”

”You drew blood.” Claire nodded toward the cut on Dean's cheek. ”Yes, I can.”

”Ah.” He pursed his lips and thought about it. ”D 'accord. You win. I give you my word.”

The symbols disappeared.

”You are a woman of action rapide, I allow you that.” Blinking away afterimages, he stepped toward her. ”For all you are so... beautiful.” His mouth slowly curled up into a lopsided smile that softened the long lines of his face, creating an expression that somehow managed to combine lechery and innocence. Claire found it a strangely attractive combination. ”Tes yeux sons comme du chocolat riche de fonce... Your eyes they are like pools of the finest chocolate; melting and promising so very much sweetness. Does anyone ever tell you this?”

”No.”

”Are you certain?”

He sounded so surprised she had to smile. ”I'd have remembered.”

”So foolish are mortal men.” After a dramatic sigh, his voice deepened to a caress. ”Your lips, they are like the petal of a crimson rose, your throat like an alabaster column in the temple of my heart, your b.r.e.a.s.t.s...”

”That's quite far enough, thank you.” There was such a mix of sincere flattery and blatant opportunism in the inventory that Claire found it impossible to be insulted.

Jacques spread expressive hands. ”I mean only to say...”

Standing at the edge of the cleared s.p.a.ce, Dean cleared his throat. ”She said that was enough.”

”Really? El maintenant, what did I say of mortal men?” One brow flicked up to punctuate a disdainful glance. ”Ah, oui, that they are fools. Are you mortal, man? No, wait, it is not a man at all; it is a boy.”

Moving up behind Claire's left shoulder, Dean dropped his voice. ”What is this?”

”This is Jacques Labaet.” She couldn't decide if she were amused or irritated by Dean's interruption, mostly because she couldn't decide if he were being supportive or protective. ”He's a ghost.”

”A ghost?” Dean repeated. He turned his head and found himself nose-to-nose with the phantom.

”Boo,” said Jacques.

”We have just left Kingston, steaming for Quebec City; the weather, she is bad, but she is always bad on the lakes in the fall and we think anything is better than being stuck in with the English over freeze up. We barely reach Point Fredrick when things, they go all to h.e.l.l.”

Claire winced, but there was no response from the furnace room.

”Pardon. Such language I should not use around a lady.” Blowing her a kiss, Jacques continued his story. ”The wind she came up, roaring like a live thing. I remember something hard, I don't know what, catching me here.” He tapped the sweater just below his sternum. ”I remember cold water and then, rien. Nothing.” His shoulders rose and fell in a Gallic shrug. ”They said I wash up on sh.o.r.e, more dead than alive. Me, I don't know why they bring me here. Two days later, I died.”