Legacy & Spellbound (9 page)

“To make good tea,” he echoed.

Jer: London

James and Eli swaggered belowdecks, pints of beer in their hands, and chuckled at the mess that was Jer, lying prone on a sleep-away cot nestled among the ship's cargo. They had taken one of the Supreme Coven's private yachts for the voyage to London— James, being who he was, commandeered it—and Jer, though in terrible pain, understood that he was being taken to headquarters to help with the conjuring of the Black Fire.

Does my father know what's going on?
he wondered.
Whose side is he on these days? Will he be there?

He knew that his days of relative isolation were over. Now he would have to earn his keep … and ensure his own survival.

But it was Eli and Dad who conjured the fire. I have no idea how they did it.

He wondered how Holly was. Where she was. He had dreamed of her so many times.

I hope I haven't sent my spirit out to her, but I can't be sure. I've spent so much time half-unconscious, and I know I've thought about her. They're looking for her. They want to kill her.

“Want a beer, Jer?” Eli asked, sidling over to his brother. Viciously he pressed the bottom of his beer mug against Jer's burned, swollen lips. Jer groaned in pain as his lower lip cracked and began to bleed. “Not thirsty?”

Jer was thirsty. He was practically dying of thirst.

I won't give them the satisfaction of begging,
he thought. But with his next breath he moaned, “Water.”

“Sorry? What's that?” Eli queried politely.

Jer clamped his mouth shut.

Eli laughed. He made a show of swigging down his beer and walked away.

“Help James and me conjure the Black Fire,” he said, “and you'll have all the water you can drink.”

London, Safe House

Kari sat quietly, rocking gently. She had been feeling better, safer when they were at Joel's. Now the realization that a huge battle had happened and she couldn't even remember it terrified her.
Was I going to die?
she couldn't stop herself from wondering.
And just how did Holly stop it?
Something wasn't right with that. Didn't the others see that as well?

They're too busy kissing the ground she walks on,
she thought bitterly.
Well,
I
certainly didn't elect her as head of the Coven. I don't know why we have to do everything she says.

Truth be told, she would much rather have Sasha as their leader. The older woman was more experienced and kinder, especially to Kari.

And Sasha was Jer's mother. Kari wasn't so naive as to believe that that didn't play a huge part in how she felt. Tears stung the back of her eyes. There was something so comforting in Sasha's presence, and she reminded Kari of Jer so much—her manners, her features.

Kari could feel the tears streaming openly down her face now. The others didn't notice, though. They never did. Either that or they didn't care.

So many nights she had lain awake wishing she had never met Jer and been introduced to the world of magic. Then she would repent her thoughts because
she couldn't imagine a life without Jer Deveraux. So many nights she cried herself to sleep praying that she would see him again.

But when she had seen him … he had only had eyes for Holly. Kari tried to convince herself that Holly had bewitched him.
But was I already losing my hold on him? He was so dour and withdrawn. Things were coming to a head between him and his father … almost as if they sensed they were going to have a showdown.

Holly came between them and forced the issue. She's the most arrogant chick I've ever known … and with her power, that makes her dangerous. God, I wish I'd never gotten involved in all this crap.

I'd have a Ph.D. by now, if I'd just stayed the course.

Yeah, but I was too into Jer to turn back when I realized he really was a warlock, and there was such a thing as true magic. By then I was hooked on him, and on trying to learn how to use magic on my own. I can't blame that on Holly.

But I can blame her for taking him away from me.

Some time there'll be payback, Cathers. Count on it.

Kari balled her fists and closed her eyes.

The tears kept coming.

“When they hung her, I watched and laughed. She was innocent. I was the witch they
sought. I sold my soul to the Devil himself, and the Devil
protects his own. He protected me, and he protected the Cathers woman. She told me once she was
descended from queens of powerful witchery, and I believe her.”
—Confession of Tabitha Johnson, upon her deathbed
Salem, Massachusetts

We lick the wounds that we have borne
As limb from limb we have been torn
But we will rise and live again
Death's the beginning, not the end

Find now the strength to change
To take our souls and rearrange
We can be as we will
We can love, or laugh, or kill

Headquarters of the Supreme Coven: London

In the clothes she'd been captured in, although freshly laundered, Nicole paced the floor of the honeymoon suite. Her dark hair was in a tangle, her thoughts as jumbled.

I have to get out of here.

The room was her prison, and she was not allowed to leave it. She had tried everything, from blasting at the door with magic bolts to hacking at the knob with
a wooden coat hanger. She felt terribly inept at figuring her way out—real life certainly wasn't like the movies—and it embarrassed her that she gave up so easily.

James had been gone for two days, which was a relief, but she was unbearably tense from wondering what was going to happen next. Tension squeezed her heart as she gazed at the carved relief of the moon on the headboard of the bed. All witches knew when the full moon blazed; in two more nights, it would be Yule, one of the most sacred nights of the Coventry calendar—and the night James had promised he would force her into thrall. She would be the Lady to his Lord, and he would exploit her magical energies, use them for his own evil purposes … and there would be nothing she could do to stop him. It was the worst violation she could imagine.

I blew it. I should never have left the coven.

In anger, she tossed another bolt at the door.

To her shock, the section of wood adjacent to the jamb splintered from the doorknob to the top.

She gaped at it openmouthed, unable to believe it. Racing to it, she pushed on the weakened section, hearing a sharp crack as it continued to split. Her heart caught; she glanced around guiltily, listening for footsteps in case someone realized what she'd
accomplished, then shot another bolt against the wood.

This time the section detached sufficiently for her to push her hand through and unlock the door on the other side. She scraped her hand on the rough wood, but she would have been willing to push her way through a broken window if it meant getting out.

Easing the door open, she peered into the hallway. There was no one there, but that didn't mean it was unguarded. For all she knew, she had already triggered an alarm and James's family's henchmen were on their way here to subdue her.

She took a step into the corridor, which was papered in black and red, and then another. She shook her head, amazed that she had gotten this far. She ticked her gaze over her shoulder, anxiously scanning for movement.

And then she ran like hell.

She had no idea where she was going, and she told herself she should slow down and figure out a plan. But how? What plan? She didn't know anything about this place except that it was home to the greatest evil force in Coventry, the Supreme Coven. That people died here.

That I might die here.

And so she ran.

* * *

Seated on the throne of skulls, Sir William cocked his head as Matthew Monroe, one of his principal lieutenants, walked into the room.

The redheaded Monroe looked bemused and said, “This is what we have so far. Someone managed to trip the alarms at the guard post in north London, but nothing happened.” He shrugged. “As far as we can determine, no demons or imps were dispatched. There was no engagement, and everything seems quiet now.”

Sir William shook his head. “It's not right. The only way our alarms activate is when an identifiable threat triggers them. That means a witch.”

Monroe nodded. “That's true, Sir William.”

“And yet, nothing happened.”

“Also true.” Monroe crossed his arms over his chest. “But I don't think it was a glitch. I think someone tripped the alarm, and then used magic to reset it before anything happened.”

“That's the most logical explanation. But it is, of course, very troubling.”

“Very, sir,” Monroe agreed.

Sir William narrowed his eyes. Slowly, his human form melted away, revealing his demonic appearance. He was proud of it. His ancestors had worked long and hard to become elite members of the damned—the first had been Sir Richard, governor of Botany Bay. Sir
Richard's explorations into the Nightmare Dreamtime were legendary, and Sir William was justly proud of him.

Monroe blinked fiercely, but stood his ground, one of the few who had seen the transformation often enough not to run screaming in fear. His fearlessness was one of his more admirable traits, and one of his more dangerous. Still, Sir William trusted him as he trusted few others.

His voice rumbled in his chest as he said, “Have we located the Cathers witch?”

Monroe hesitated. “We're fairly certain she's in London. The Deveraux falcons have sensed her, but they can't seem to locate her.”

With his large clawed hand, Sir William made a fist and pounded the armrest of his throne. “Damn the Mother Coven and their wards and cloaks! If they'd stop hiding, come out and fight …” He huffed. “I don't understand how the Cahors ever consented to become part of that group. They were far too hot-blooded.” His scaly lips pulled back in the rictus of a smile. “And Holly Cathers is more of the old school, wouldn't you say?”

Monroe couldn't help but smile back. “As you say, Sir William. Particularly if she's the one who tripped our alarm and lived to tell the tale.”

“She needs killing.”

“She does,” Monroe agreed.

Sir William chuckled. “Has my son shown up yet? Brought Jeraud Deveraux with him?”

Monroe checked his watch. “They're due within the hour,” he informed his High Priest.

“Of course James thinks he'll discover the secret of the Black Fire first, use it to push me off this chair,” Sir William drawled. “That boy … thick as a post.”

“He has a lot of smart friends,” Monroe reminded him. “And I still contend that Michael Deveraux is one of them.”

“Michael's only loyal to Michael,” Sir William insisted. “As long as I keep my grip, he'll come along.”

He dug his claws into the armrest, cracking the bones, and yanked a section of it free. The splintered bone fragments resembled bits of bread sticks in his fist.

“Looks like I still have that grip.”

Monroe's brows raised slightly, and his voice quavered for only an instant as he replied, “Looks like you do.”

Sir William carelessly tossed the bones to the floor and said, “Use one of the more long-legged sacrifices tonight. We need a new femur for this thing.”

Black and red, black and red, blackred, blackred …

The wallpaper was a blur. Paintings and suits of
armor were blurs as Nicole raced past them. Mirrors startled her, but she kept on.

Nicole hadn't stopped running since she had escaped from her room at the headquarters of the Supreme Coven. Her lungs ached and her throat was dry as dust; she kept telling herself to slow down and think, but what good would that do? She was as panicked as a mouse in a cage with a snake, and she knew it.

And so she ran.

Her impulse was to go down any set of stairs she found, but even in that, she didn't know if she was doing the right thing. She had never actually seen the outside of the Supreme Coven's headquarters, and for all she knew, it was built entirely underground. Warlocks preferred their ritual halls below the earth; it was witches who worshiped the Lady Moon and tried to build their sacred places as close to her as possible.