Legacy & Spellbound (5 page)

The sun glinted off the battlements of an ancient castle; wild roses enclosed it, hands to heart, nature's velvety red Claddagh rings. Each arched window was a stained-glass letter, rippling in the sun as the boat moved closer. They spelled R-E-S-C-U-E.

She was not afraid. It was going to be easy.

The island grew as she sailed to it; the shoreline was welcoming, a carpet of moss and ferns greeting the hull as her wooden boat touched land. As she stood, she looked down and saw that she was gowned in Cahors black and silver, lacy long sleeves touching the hem of her straight skirt. There was a circlet
around her black curly hair, and earrings that cascaded to her shoulders. A matching belt of silver hung low over her hips.

The boat was upholstered in black velvet; the oarlocks were silver. As she stepped out of the boat, a small figurehead at the bow lifted one hand and saluted her. It was a Greek warrior woman, her helmet pushed back to reveal a serene smile of confidence and pride.

Even in ancient Greece, my line had power,
Holly thought.
Our blood has ennobled women for centuries.

With that knowledge came more certainty that she was going to rescue her one true love.

Her slippered foot touched soft fern, and then …

… she was walking through the gentle forest; birdsong greeted her as she entered a glade washed with sunshine. In the center, an enormous oak rose to the heavens, its lush branches providing a canopy for the man who lounged beneath it.

It was Jer, with his dark hair curling around his ears, and his dark, Deveraux eyes. He was crowned with ivy, and he lay on a bed of oak leaves. His face was angular and slightly weathered, and he was more muscular than she remembered.

He's older. He's matured.

When he caught sight of her, his face lit up. His dark eyes gleamed hungrily, and he rose from the nest of leaves. His head was held proudly, his bearing noble, graceful.

Then he spread his wings and flew to her.

She lifted her own, and they gave flight.

“Jer,” she murmured as they traveled to the moon, to the stars, to the heart of the sky. “Jeraud Deveraux, I am thine.”

“Mine,
and none other,” he whispered. “Et nul autre.”

In the night, in the dark, Holly sighed and dreamed. In the hall, watching her, Sasha worried.

She's going to turn against us someday,
she thought, terribly troubled. Then she left her High Priestess to her dreams. That was all they were—dreams. There was no truth in them.

None at all.

The Coven of White Magic: London, December

Evil traveled best at night, and so José Luís's coven raced to cover as much ground as they could by day.

Except, it's not José Luís's coven anymore,
Philippe thought.
It's mine.

The Coven was made up of four male witches of French or Spanish heritage. The four worshiped the Goddess in their own unique way, blending it with the Catholicism practiced by their families. The most solemn of their number, Armand, had even studied for the priesthood before joining the Coven. Alonzo was older, the father figure and benefactor of the group. Pablo was a teenager, the younger brother of José Luís. José Luís's death had left Philippe in charge.

The Coven had found Nicole Anderson, descendant of the Cahors witches, and had been trying to protect her from the evil that pursued her. They had failed and the warlocks who had captured Nicole had killed José Luís during their attack. Their coven leader had been their only casualty … if one could use the term
only.
Losing José Luís had been like losing a brother.

He was my best friend, my copain. And they killed him. They won't get away with it.

The others grouped behind him, as if awaiting his order to move, to breathe. Astarte, the cat Nicole had adopted a few days before her capture, purred as she settled in Armand's arms, kneading his forearm as she gazed intently at Philippe. She was clearly awaiting her orders as well.

They had driven their car to the outskirts of Paris and left it there, in case the Supreme Coven had cast finders' spells on them. They had dumped their robes into the waters of the English Channel, and warded one another with protection spells as best they could.

At each juncture of their journey, they had turned to José Luís's true little brother, Pablo, whose senses were most acute—and who could often read minds— for guidance on where to go next. It made sense that he
would lead them to London, for the Supreme Coven had claimed that ancient city as their territory for centuries. After the Great Fire of London, the Mother Coven had retreated … and the citizens of London had paid, and paid dearly, for that act of cowardice— Jack the Ripper had been one consequence, and the many bombings perpetuated by the IRA had been another. Mad cow disease had run rampant courtesy of the Supreme Coven.

And now they have Nicole,
Philippe thought angrily.
Goddess, protect her from their savagery. Deliver them into our hands and let us free her.

“Anything?” he asked Pablo. José Luís's strong Spanish features were evident in Pablo's face as he raised his chin and closed his eyes, frowning in concentration. The others remained motionless, watching him, willing him to lead them to their enemies.

They stood at the traffic circle of Piccadilly Circus, a Virgin Megastore on their left, and a huge Grecian-style museum on their right. Directly before them, cars swirled around an obelisk topped by the statue of a war hero. Pablo had guided them here, sensing the strength of the Supreme Coven's dark influence as his compass point. It had become very strong … but now had disappeared.

They hide well.

Just like they kill.

When Pablo said nothing, only exhaled and gazed down at the pavement, a collective sigh went up. They were getting tired, and nerves were fraying, and Philippe knew he had to do something to bolster their spirits, keep their confidence high and their focus strong.

Then Pablo murmured, “
Momento.
There's someone …” He cocked his head as if listening to sounds Philippe could not detect. Then his eyes widened.
“Una bruja,”
he whispered, and pointed across the street.

At that very moment, a striking young woman half-turned, her glance brushing over the Coven as if by accident. Philippe caught his breath.
Nicole!

Astarte's tail flicked wildly as if she, too, recognized her mistress.

The woman's hair tumbled wildly around her face, masses of ringlets and curls; she had very black eyebrows and intense eyes. She was thin, and wiry.

But she was not Nicole.

She was, however, of witchblood.

She appeared to realize that Philippe and the others were too.

Though the crowd surged around her, she remained rooted to the spot, her lips moving, making
a discreet gesture with her left hand. She was casting a spell.

Then everything changed; the scene around Philippe stretched and slowed down; people walked past him in slow motion; voices dragged; even the light changed, becoming oddly diffuse and washing the scene with strange off-colors.

The witch glided toward them, although in some portion of his mind, Philippe realized that she was not moving. She was projecting her persona as a confrontation; her eyes crackled with energy. She raised her arms and asked in a strangely echoate voice,
De quien eres?

Not,
Who are you?
but,
Whose are you?

He responded to her, reaching into her mind:
I am Nicole's.

That shook her; her reflected image wobbled as if it were on TV and the reception was bad. Then the scene shifted again, and she was back in her place across the street, and he was staring at her.

He said to the others,
“Bon, allons-nous,”
his gaze fastened on her as she turned her head to the right, then gazed back at him and began to walk through the crowd. She was moving toward the nearest building, which was a fish and chips shop.

She looked back at him again.

“I feel it too,”
Pablo murmured.
“Ella es familia de Nicole.”

She's part of Nicole's family.

Then a shadow crossed above her head like a low-moving cloud. She stumbled backward, glancing up.

Above the noise and tumult of the street, the unmistakable war cry of a falcon jittered across the winter sky. Astarte yowled angrily and swiped with her paw at the air.

Philippe jerked his gaze to the clouds. Sure enough, three enormous falcons hovered there, the largest glaring down at the lone witch. She stood stock-still; the three looped, then tipped beak-first into the air currents and began to make for her.

“
Non
,” Philippe murmured, raising his right hand. A fireball appeared in it; he prepared to lob it, when the falcons swooped directly over the witch's head, then swooped upward again. He extinguished the fireball. Apparently, they had not been able to see her.

Or else she is their friend.

The members of José Luís's coven crossed themselves. Their Father Confessor, Alonzo, murmured, “The birds couldn't see her.”

“Let's go,” Philippe said, rushing toward her.

“It might be a trick. Falcons serve the House of Deveraux,” Armand commented. “Perhaps they are
trying to draw us out of our cloak of invisibility.”

With one more glance his way, the witch darted between two buildings and was lost to Philippe's view.

“Attends!”
he cried. He stepped into the street; horns blared. A man on a bicycle slammed on his brakes and began swearing at him in Farsi.

Philippe circled his wrist, creating a bubble of safety around himself as he ran against the traffic. Cars jerked to a stop; the man on the bicycle slowed, then tipped over—just in time, the man steadied himself with his foot—and all the while, Philippe knew he was being foolish. While he and his coven brothers could hide themselves from detection, the effects of his spell were laid bare for all to see—including the watchful falcons, who now grouped as a trio and began to dive toward him.

Now I've done it,
he thought. They were perhaps ten meters above him. He saw their flashing eyes, could magically hear the chatter of their beaks as they opened and closed them, watched the sun glint off their talons.

Then they swooped up and flew over him as they had done with the witch who so resembled Nicole. They wheeled back around, screeching with frustration, then doubled back in the opposite direction.

When his foot reached the curb of the other street,
he saw a brief flash of blue light to his right, in a small alleyway. He ran toward it.

She was not there.

But a fresh lily lay against old stones, and as he picked it up he glanced left, right … and saw no witch.

As the others caught up to him, he examined the lily, and then he inhaled its scent. “She's a friend,” he said aloud, holding out the flower, “and she's in danger.”

Astarte stared at him with her big yellow eyes, and plaintively mewed.

Jer: Avalon, December

For the third time that day Jeraud Deveraux began counting the stones that made up the walls of his prison. He thought of his life before, at home in Seattle, where he had gone where he wanted, seen whom he desired, and done what he wished.
My, how small my life has become.

He didn't know how long he had been on the island. He hadn't even seen more than his small portion of it, which consisted of a cell-like room with a tiny door opening onto a narrow path that led to a lone rock on a sheer cliff. Neither the six-foot path nor the cliff offered any hope of escape. He could not scale sheer rock.

Inside his cell there was only the one door, but he
was the only one who used it. The others who came and went did so right through the wall, through some kind of porthole he had been unable to find or open. He had spent days searching for another way out of the room and days more searching the cliff for a means of escape. He had finally given up.

His time was better spent trying to heal his body and mind and gathering information from the girl who brought him food. He feared he wasn't faring well with the healing part. His flesh was still mangled, and he feared he looked barely human. His mind hadn't fared much better. Every night he dreamed of Holly, wanting her and hating her. He fought himself from calling to her until he was in a fever of torment and then the real agony began. Every night in his dreams he relived the night in the school gymnasium when his father and brother had summoned the Black Fire and Holly had left him to burn in it.

On the plus side he had managed to gather a considerable amount of information. He knew that he was being held prisoner on the mythic island of Avalon. He had also managed to learn that it was the home of Sir William, the leader of the Supreme Coven, and his son, James. He had almost pinpointed the location of the island, even, through a variety of means ranging from the astrological to the magical. If his stars were
right, the island was located in the Celtic Sea between Ireland and Britain. If his stars were wrong, he could be on the dark side of the moon for all he knew.

The skin on the back of his neck started to crawl. It was an intensely uncomfortable reaction that he had come to associate with the members of House Moore.

Seconds later he heard footsteps approaching. He turned and stared straight at James and Eli as they materialized inside the room. He blinked hard. He had seen people appear inside the room and it still startled him. A light blue shimmered around them and then faded within a moment.
It has to be a portal. It must be opened by magic.
If that was true, though, then how did the servant who brought him his food make it through? He had tried to follow her out once but had found himself thrown backward half the length of the room. Maybe it was keyed to certain peoples' auras. Maybe it was keyed to his.