Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 85: The French Colonel
Night wraps itself around Jaén like a shroud. The streets are quieter than usual ... too quiet. The French raid on the markets earlier in the month has driven people indoors, leaving only shadows and the distant echo of boots on patrol. But the intelligence gained at the Altamira house is too valuable to the guerrilleros to stop the flow of messages, despite the risk.
Isabel moves through the darkness with her shawl pulled tight, her breath shallow, her steps careful. She carries Adella’s latest message tucked inside her apron. It’s the most important one yet.
I whisper softly. ‘Stay close to the walls. Don’t cross the open ground.’
She obeys, slipping through narrow alleys, avoiding lantern light, listening for every sound.
Her heart still trembles from what happened that night at the house. Mateo’s accusation and Marchand’s suspicion. Neither man has accused her since, but she cannot shake the feeling of being watched. She lives with a sense of danger that now feels constant.
Isabel keeps moving. She must. She reaches the edge of the plaza near the old well. The moonlight spills across the stones, pale and cold. She pauses, listening.
She hears a distant shout. Boots striking cobblestones. A patrol is approaching.
I whisper sharply. ‘Turn back. Now.’
She pivots into a side alley ... But a figure steps out of the shadows.
Lieutenant Marchand.
Isabel’s breath stops. He smiles slowly, unpleasantly. “Out again, little dove? There’s only ten minutes until curfew. Not enough time for you to reach Altamira before then.”
Her pulse spikes. I feel her fear like a shock.
Marchand steps closer, blocking her path. “You wander too much. At night. Alone. Why?”
Isabel’s voice trembles. “I ... I was sent to fetch the doctor.”
Marchand laughs softly. “You lie poorly.”
He reaches for her arm. I react immediately. His mind is suddenly befuddled with swirling lights and strange sounds. He staggers backwards, clutching his head.
I whisper sharply. ‘Run.’
Isabel jerks away and bolts down the alley. Marchand recovers enough to order a nearby squad to give chase. They obey at once, but they are far enough behind to offer Isabel a chance of escape. Isabel’s breath tears through her chest. The message presses against her ribs like a heartbeat.
I whisper urgently. ‘Left! Through the archway!’
She darts left, slipping through a narrow archway into a darker street. The French soldiers follow, summoning help from a nearby patrol.
Isabel stumbles, catches herself, and keeps running. Her lungs burn, and her legs shake. Her fear rises like fire. But she doesn’t stop.
Then she makes a mistake. I tell her to turn left, but in her panic, she turns right ... into a dead‑end courtyard. No exit. No escape.
The pursuing soldiers stop at the entrance to the courtyard, content to prevent Isabel from escaping. They are clearly waiting for someone, and that someone turns out to be Marchand. Lieutenant Marchand enters the courtyard, having recovered his senses. His breath is heavy, and his eyes gleaming with triumph.
“Caught,” he says softly.
Isabel backs against the wall, trembling. Marchand steps closer...
“Help me, Jeannia,” whispers Isabel.
It’s many years since I last manifested in corporeal form but I can do so easily. But suddenly appearing out of nowhere in front of so many witnesses would be risky. I need a distraction to divert the Frenchmen’s attention for a moment.
The bracelet obliges. The wooden dove that Nicole gave Isabel as a keepsake is tucked in her apron. Suddenly a dove flies from Isabel’s apron and flies straight at Marchand causing him to duck, and his sudden movement distracts the soldiers at the entrance. When they return their attention back to Isabel, they find a French cavalry colonel standing by a door not far from where Isabel stands.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion, Lieutenant?” asks the colonel.
My voice sounds too high for a man, but none of the soldiers are willing to challenge a high ranking officer.
“We have caught a rebel sympathiser, undoubtedly up to no good,” replies Marchand.
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