Legacy & Spellbound (11 page)

The figure remained silent.

Nicole tried again. “Are you Isabeau?” Though Isabeau had taken Holly over at a séance conducted by Tante Cecile last year, Nicole had not had a good view of her. And veiled as the figure was, it was impossible to tell her identity.

The figure still said nothing, only extended the dagger toward her. Nicole uncertainly reached out her hand. “Does it belong to James?” she asked as she got to her feet.

As if in reply, the figure inclined her head the merest fraction of an inch. Then she shifted her gaze to the headboard. Nicole followed her line of vision and walked toward the bed, nervously skirting the area where the figure stood.

“Is there something for me here?” Nicole asked.

She crossed to the headboard and touched the carving of the Horned God seated on the pile of human skulls.

It was loose to her touch.

Blinking, she grasped it between her fingers, working it gently, and pulled the figure off the rest of the frieze. A hole approximately two inches in diameter had been bored into the wood, and she peered inside.

There was a small pile of objects, including a ring, what looked to be a couple of smooth pebbles, and something else. She pulled it out and saw that it was a tiny wax figurine with hair wrapped around its head. Her hair.

She swallowed and looked back at the veiled form. “Is this me?”

The figure held out her hand.

Nicole uncertainly clasped the figure to her chest. “You want it?”

The woman moved her head. It was eerie that she didn't speak, and barely moved. Everything was happening at once; Nicole was exhausted from running and still so frightened that she could hardly stand, much less consider what was going on. She needed a moment to figure out what to do … but she didn't have a moment.

“But …” She glanced down at the figurine, at the pebbles, and at the knife. As far as she could tell, the woman was helping her; though she was not a celestial
being, she appeared to be on Nicole's side, at least in some deep-boned sense that Nicole couldn't really even begin to comprehend.

Then the woman turned the knife around so that she held it hilt-first, and offered it to Nicole.

Nicole took a breath, and wrapped her hand around the hilt.

A cold, icy chill ran down her spine. And she saw in her mind's eye:

A souvenir shop, its front door hanging open, and snow pouring in. Nearby, a tea cup, smashed on the tile. A puddle of tea.

A man, his name was Joel, and he was a Druid; he had helped Holly, but now he was lying on the floor before a dying fire, his eyes wide open, his lips tinged a pale, robin's egg blue.

“Oh, my God, he's dead!” Nicole cried.

At once the shimmering figure disappeared, leaving Nicole with the knife, the wax figure, the ring, and the pebbles.

And the door to the bedroom began to open.

Quickly she replaced the pebbles, the ring, and the figure and pushed the carving back into place. The
knife, she hid under one of the pillows.

She had just whirled around to face the door when James strutted in.

He said nothing, only smirked at her and shut the door. “You must have missed me,” he said. “You're panting.”

She forced herself to stop breathing heavily, which wasn't difficult. As he came near, her chest constricted, and it was hard to make herself breathe at all.

“There's going to be a ritual tonight,” he informed her. “And you're going to participate.” He smiled evilly. “An old friend of yours will be there.”

Alarms went off.

Does he mean Jer?

“What kind of ritual?” she asked him.

“We're working on the Black Fire. You know, Cathers and Deveraux together is supposed to be a potent combination.”

She tried to play dumb. “So Eli will be there.”

“Oh. Yeah.
Eli.
”

He looked at her with a mixture of amusement and contempt. Then he crossed to the bed, sat down, and stretched out, still wearing his boots. She tried to take a steadying breath; she was growing faint from lack of oxygen, but she knew she had to keep her wits about her.

He held out his arms. “Come here, Nicole. Welcome me home.”

She stared at him and gave her head a shake.
Not again. Never again.

There was a knock on the door, and then it opened. A redheaded man stood in the doorway. He looked unaccountably nervous. He ticked his glance in Nicole's direction. His cheeks visibly flushed as if someone had slapped him. Nicole observed him carefully, intrigued.

James half sat up, frowning. “Monroe, I didn't say ‘come in.'”

“Your father wants to see you,” the man said. He glanced once more at Nicole, then looked quickly away. She could almost hear his heartbeat, he was so nervous.

Oblivious to the other man's distress, James swore under his breath and got up. He brushed past Nicole and headed out the door. The two left, James slammed the door behind them, and she heard the lock click.

For a moment she panicked at the thought that she was once more entrapped, and then she reminded herself that she had managed to get out once before. And now she had the things she needed.

I think I do.

“Isabeau?” she called. “Are you still here?”

There was no answer, and Nicole sensed that she was truly alone. She scrambled back onto the bed and retrieved the items from the headboard, pausing to examine the ring. The black stone was shaped like a pentagram, topped with a gold replica of the carving of the Horned God that was on the headboard.

She closed her fist around it and took a deep breath.

I'll take it to Jer.

If I can get back to him.

As the others grouped around Holly and Amanda, Nicole's cat, Astarte, settled into Amanda's lap. Holly reached out to pet her, and the cat hissed at her.

She withdrew her hand, gazing at Philippe, Sasha, and Rose, who had arranged everyone else in a pentagram surrounding the two witches. They were still in Rose's parlor; the pentagram was burned into the wooden floor, beneath her floral carpets.

“We call upon the incarnations of Deveraux and Cahors past,” Sasha intoned, “that we might learn more of the blood feud between the two great houses. Let our Priestess glimpse her past and the past of her house. Let the blood of Cathers drip into the memories of Cathers hearts.”

She picked up Rose's athame. Holly fearlessly held
out her hand, palm up. Sasha drew a slice down the center.

It hurt, but Holly remained still and centered.

It was Amanda's turn. When the knife ran down the center of her palm, she sucked in her breath and murmured,
“Ow.”

“Let me see,” Holly demanded. “Let me live through the eyes of Cathers. And Deveraux,” she added.

“No,” Amanda whispered. “Stay away from them.”

“And Deveraux,” Holly repeated, ignoring her cousin.

There was a stir around the circle, which Holly also ignored. She pressed her palm against Amanda's—their birthmarks creating two thirds of the lily, which was the symbol of the great House of Cahors. Immediately she felt their combined strength filling her veins.

When we get Nicole back, we'll be the three Ladies of the Lily together. There'll be no stopping us from doing whatever we want to do.

“Still your mind, Priestess,” Philippe urged her.

Holly took a deep breath, and did as he asked.

San Francisco

Richard Anderson sat and he thought. He didn't seem to do much else these days. He had been grieving for
a long time—for years. Then one day—yesterday, actually—he just stopped. He was done. Done grieving for his wife, done grieving for his marriage, done grieving for his life. It was as though he suddenly had woken up.

He looked around, and strangers were taking care of him. He believed one of them was Amanda's friend's mother or aunt or something. He had no idea who the Native American guy was. There was much talk and concern about a Barbara, who apparently wasn't doing well.

And no one could tell him how his girls were doing.

Something had to change. He needed more information first, though. If there was one thing he had learned in Vietnam, it was that you damn well better know what was waiting for you when you leaped. The only lesson he had learned half so well was to crave safety and stability. When his wife, Marie-Claire, had met him, he had been a daredevil. He took risks. When he had come home from the war to his young wife, he had found the most stable job he could and settled down. His computer company had sprung from that, and it had never been a very risky enterprise.

She had never understood his desire for stability; he could see that now. Maybe he hadn't been exciting
enough for her at that point. Instead of actually trying to talk about it or ask for a divorce, though, she had snuck around behind his back. Her fault. He had known she was doing it and had done nothing. His fault. He had been too worried about keeping her. Having two little girls hadn't helped. He had felt such a need to keep their home life secure for them, so that they wouldn't have to face risk, uncertainty.

He had sure botched that. Maybe instead he should have taught his girls to survive, to be tough. Maybe that would stand them in better stead now that they were fighting such evil. He closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do to change the past. He could, however, change the future. Maybe it was time for his daughters to discover that their old man knew a thing or two about life and war. He couldn't do magic, but he bet they'd be surprised to learn exactly what he could do.

Harken now, there's work ahead
For every Deveraux, alive or dead
Oh, Green Man grant us this we pray
Courage and victory at end of day

Goddess help us face our fears
Drying now our angry tears
Give us the strength to prevail
As we glimpse beneath the veil

Salem, Massachusetts: October 29, 1692

Jonathan Deveraux smiled as he awoke. He could hear the rain pounding on the roof, and from afar thunder rumbled ominously. Yes, it was going to be a glorious day.

As he dressed he mentally reviewed the events of the past months. Salem had been a quiet town until January, when young Elizabeth Parris and Abigail Williams had started crying that there were witches in their midst. Hallucinations, seizures, and trances
experienced by them and other local girls had been all the proof the God-fearing people needed.

What had started out as an ugly prank by a couple of bored, spiteful children had turned into an epidemic of fear and paranoia. But, more than that, it had turned into a game of chess that Jonathan and Abigail Cathers played.

When he had come to Salem he had been shocked to find a descendant of the Cahors family living there with a new name and no memory of the blood feud that had driven her ancestor from her native France. Abigail Cathers was a witch, but she never knew that he, Jonathan Deveraux, was a warlock.

So for months she had played the game, though she did not know who her opponent was. He would move a citizen of the town into a position to denounce her as a witch and she would deflect, causing another to be accused in her place. Sarah Osborne, Margaret Jacobs, and Elizabeth Proctor had all been pawns, sacrificed by Abigail to cast suspicion away from herself. The good citizens were blissfully unaware of the manipulation of their minds by the two.

But at last he had checkmated her. Today she would stand trial before the Court of Oyer and Terminer. The six remaining judges of the court, which had been set up by the governor to try the witch cases, could do no else but find her guilty.

He only wished he could be there to see the look on her face when they pronounced the sentence. Alas, the court was closed to the public. His scrying stone would have to do.

As the child Elizabeth Parris slowly and solemnly denounced Abigail Cathers, the woman turned white. Three girls sat in chairs before the judges, their faces grim but their eyes dancing with a fiendish glee. How many had died because of them?

“And she cursed my dog so she could not have pups. Every year she's had a litter and this year none. And it's all because of Abigail Cathers. Doggie barked at Abigail, and Abigail looked at her quite cruelly and said that she would never have little puppies to bark at people again.”

“I have done nothing wrong,” Abigail said, standing. “These children have falsely accused so many, and you have willingly believed every word. Listen to what they are saying; it is ridiculous. Why would I curse a dog for doing what it was made to do? This court has sentenced dozens of innocents to their death. My friend, Goodwife Mary Shiflett, was among them …” And here she faltered. Tears formed in her eyes. “… and you drowned her! You
drowned
her!”

“She was well accused,” Samuel asserted.

She raised her chin. “True witches would not have
allowed themselves to be killed. True witches would have silenced these girls and not their miserable dogs.”