Witch & Curse (35 page)

Tommy breathed deeply, becoming one with the sword and with Holly's own rhythmic breaths. The rest took their places around Holly and Tommy in the circle, forming a living, single magical being.

We're one
, Holly thought.
We have a power the Deveraux do not. Through love, we are trying to break down our barriers and work fully together. Their system is based on power, wresting it away from others and holding on to it at all costs. And I have to believe that love is stronger than that
.

“I bless your brow, for wisdom's sake,” she said, making a pentagram with oil on his forehead.

“I bless your eyes, for good vision and sharp sight.” She dotted each closed eyelid with more oil.

“I bless your sense of smell, for detection of hellish sulfur.” She ran a line of oil down his nose.

She blessed his mouth, that he might call out a warning in case of attack. She blessed his heart, for courage, and his arms, for the strength to wield his sword well against trespassers.

Then she deliberately placed her thumb on the sharp edge of the sword, wincing as she cut herself. Drops of blood ran down the blade, feeding it.

Love might be the coin of the realm, but blood still fed the circle. The Cahors had not been a gentle
house; in their day they had been just as ruthless as the Deveraux. What Holly hoped for was evolution, a chance to reinvent her family's path. Since so much had been lost in the intervening centuries, she was trying to find the balance between new magical forms and the traditions her coven must observe in order for the magic to work. It was slow going, a process of trial and error . . . but if Michael was back to threaten them, she would have to do whatever it took to keep her people safe, no matter how “unevolved” it was.

But this was not the time for such ruminations; she quickly finished Tommy's anointing.

“I bless you from crown to heel, Tommy. Rise, my Long Arm of the Law, and embrace your priestess.”

Tommy stood tall as Holly handed the dipper back to Amanda. Then she put her arms around him, careful not to touch the sword with her body, and kissed him gently on the lips.

She took a step backward, and Tommy said, “I will sever any snares our enemies have set.”

“Blessed be,” the circle murmured.

Amanda and Kari let go of each other's hands, allowing Tommy to pass.

“I will smite our enemies' imps and familiars, be they invisible or disguised,” he continued.

“Blessed be,” the circle said again.

With great effort, he raised the sword toward the ceiling.

“And I—”

A terrible scream shattered the moment. Something flashed, glowing green. Wind whipped through the room, frigid and solid like ice. The stench of sulfur invaded the space.

Tommy staggered backward. “Look!” Kari screamed, pointing.

Grunting, Tommy jabbed the sword tip toward the ceiling. The glow was pierced; a phosphorescent, semiliquid stream of green tumbled around the sword tip and dripped onto the floor. Kari jumped away from it, and the rest of the circle struggled to keep their hands clasped.

The glow vibrated, then faded.

“Oh, my God,” Kari gasped.

Skewered on the tip of the sword was the likeness of a falcon jerking in its death throes. It was not a real bird, but a magical representation; the green glow thickened and became blood, steaming and fresh. Tommy's hands were coated with it, and it was dripping onto the floor.

As Holly stared in dread fascination, the bird's mouth dropped open. A disembodied voice echoed throughout the room:

“You Cahors whores, you'll be dead by midsummer.”

With one last shudder, the bird stopped moving. Its eyes stared dully out at the circle.

There was a silence.

Then Amanda said, “He's back. Michael Deveraux is back.”

Holly closed her eyes; dread and stark fear washed over her.

Here we go
, she thought.
The battle lines have just been drawn. How can we possibly fight him?

More to the point
. . .
how can we hope to beat him?

Nicole: Cologne, Germany, September

Nicole threw a terrified glance over her shoulder as she raced down the corridors of the train station. A train rumbled away; her footsteps echoed like staccato points to the bass line of its leave-taking. The pink and gold streaks of dawn chased the shadows, and she was terribly grateful; the night had held sway far too long, and she was exhausted.

I should have stayed in Seattle
, she thought.
I thought I'd be safer if I ran away . . . but there's that old saying about dividing and conquering
. . .
except that I don't know what it is
. . . .

Ever since she'd been in London three months ago, something had been following her. It was not a
person, not in the traditional sense; it was something that could glide along the walls of buildings and perch on gabled rooftops—something that could trail after her with a rush of wings and a lone cry. She had not been able to see it; but in her mind, it was a falcon, and it was Michael Deveraux's eyes and ears, harrying her like the little mouse she was.

She wasn't certain that it had ever actually located her. Perhaps it was blindly lurking, waiting for her to use magic to reveal herself. That idea gave her hope that she might survive long enough to figure out what to do.
I'm terrified to contact Holly and Amanda
. . . .
What if that reveals my presence to whatever this thing is? Like answering “Polo” when the blindfolded guy who's saying “Marco” is six inches away from you?

She was on her way to holy ground; she had covered much of Europe from London to France to Germany by leapfrogging from church to graveyard to chapel to cathedral. She didn't know if her gut instinct to seek safe harbor in mosques, synagogues, and Christian churches was correct. All she knew was that she felt better within walls built by people who adhered to some sort of faith tradition . . . as if their faith protected her from evil.

She listened to that instinct and to the urge to keep moving. The shadow was following her, and she had
the feeling that if she kept moving, it might never land on her—might not carry her off, the way that huge falcon had carried off Eli.

Did he die?

What about Holly and Amanda? I abandoned them. I'm so ashamed. I was so scared
. . . .

She had ridden a train all night. Her destination this dawn was the famous Dom of Cologne, an ancient medieval cathedral said to house relics of the Three Kings. She had read about it in a guidebook; she had bought and memorized more guidebooks about religious buildings in Europe than could be carried in a fully stocked travel store. She had taken an enormous number of trains. She had spent tons of money.

Problem is, I'm almost out of money
. . . .
What am I going to do when I can't run anymore?

Up the steps, she stopped. A hundred feet away, rising at the edge of a square, the tall Gothic structure loomed like a monolith. Its spire stretched toward the heavens; the rosettes and statues that cluttered the entry were dark gray, welcoming.

Gray magic is what the Cathers are all about
, she thought.
Our ancestors, the Cahors, were not very good people. They were just . . . less evil than the Deveraux
.

We aren't necessarily the good guys
.

Still, heaven seems happy to shelter us
.

Taking a deep breath, Nicole raced across the square and pushed open the doors of the church.

It was cool inside; a row of men in brown robes tied with black sashes stood with their backs to her and sang in Latin. A priest in a collar raised his eyes inquiringly; she knew he saw a young woman in jeans and a peasant top, carrying a backpack. Her dark hair was coiled on top of her head and she wore no makeup. She was sunburned and there were circles under her eyes.

In three months Nicole had had an unbroken night of sleep exactly twice.

I'm so tired and scared
.

Scowling at her, the priest waved his finger in her face.
“Hier darf man nicht schlafen, verstehen Sie?”
he asked her sternly.
Do you understand that you may not sleep in here?

“Ja,”
she said breathlessly. Her eyes welled with tears, and the man immediately softened.

He walked a few steps backward, gesturing to the pews. There were no other people there except for the row of monks singing an early-morning Mass.

Nicole inclined her head and said,
“Danke schön.”
“Thank you” was one of the “Useful Words and Phrases” she had memorized from one of her guidebooks.

She slid into the nearest pew and sat back, staring up at the celestial heights of the arched ceiling high above her. As she let the atmosphere of the church permeate her being, she could visualize the sun piercing the darkness above the spire.

And then, in her mind's eye, a dark shadow flitted between her and the sun.

She gasped aloud. The traveling shadow was the silhouette of a bird. And she sat inside this deceptive trap like a doomed, helpless mouse.

Then the church bells ran pealing out the message,
All is well, all is well
.

And that was a damn lie.

Jer: The Island of Avalon, October

The lie was that this was being alive.

Each instant that he lived was an eternity of torment. Each breath he took was a bellows in his chest, stoking the Black Fire flames as they roasted his heart and his lungs.

If he had been capable of coherent thought, Jer Deveraux would have begged the God to let him die. And beneath that supplication would have fluttered the terrible fear that he was dead already . . . and in Hell.

Echoing through his throbbing skull, words he
could not comprehend told the tale of the rest of his unbearable existence: “If you have not killed Holly Cathers by midsummer, Michael, I will kill your son and feed his soul to my servants.”

And Michael Deveraux had answered, “I am yours to command in this and all things.”

From her perch in the shimmering blue mist that was the magic of the Cahors, the lady hawk, Pandion, ruffled her feathers and cocked her head. She heard a plaintive cry, as that from a mate, and prepared to take flight in search of it.

And from the green-glowing ether that was his rookery, Fantasme, the falcon familiar of the Deveraux, sharpened his talons on the skull of a long-dead foe.

Holly and Amanda: Seattle, October

We are all still alive. It's been almost a month since the apparition of the falcon in our Circle, and we have managed to keep Michael Deveraux at bay
.

Holly stared out at the ocean, allowing its vastness to sweep over her, engulf her until she felt small once more. She drew strength from her solitary walks along the shore; sometimes she wondered if Isabeau's ghost walked with her, supporting her as she struggled to keep the coven together and to keep them safe from
Michael Deveraux. There was power in the heartbeat of the waves, the ebb and flow of the great waters. The ocean was in its turn mother, lover, and enemy. The gentle, rhythmic lap of the waves was like the soothing beating of a mother's heart as she cradled her baby.

Holly closed her eyes and let herself listen to the sound. She breathed in the fresh salty air, and for a moment she might have been anywhere—in San Francisco, her old home even, instead of her new one in Seattle.

Tears squeezed out from beneath her closed eyelids and rolled slowly down her cheeks. It had not been a good day. Any day you had to start with a phone call to your lawyer was not a good day.

Holly was only nineteen, yet dealing with her parents' attorney had become a part of her life. Between talking to him and the financial planner who helped oversee her inheritance, she thought she might scream. There were always questions to answer and more papers to sign. They wanted to discuss her finances and her options for the future.

What if I have no future? What if I die tomorrow?
she thought, a wave of bitterness choking her.
I'm fighting for my life, for the lives of my family and friends, and nobody gets it. I don't have time to worry about what I'm going to do five years from now. I probably won't even be here
.

Still, she knew that she should be grateful. If it weren't for her parents' careful planning, she wouldn't have time to practice spells and learn all the practical things that could help extend her life. She would be too busy trying to work to keep herself fed. It was especially important now that Uncle Richard had given up all pretext of going to work. Good thing Aunt Marie-Claire had money, or Amanda would be in serious trouble.

In a way she envied Kari. The older girl still at least got to pretend that she had a life, something other than magic and spells. She was still going to grad school. Tommy and Amanda were trying to go to college as well. Holly knew that Amanda in particular, though, was struggling. Holly figured college was just one of those dreams she herself had to give up the day that she learned she was a witch.
And that other people want to kill me
.

She sighed heavily. The day had only gone from bad to worse when she had called the hospital to check on Barbara. Most weeks the news was the same: no change in status. This week, though, she could sense something, an uneasiness in the doctor's voice that hadn't been there seven days before. Something was wrong; she could feel it. She was sure that Barbara was somehow doing worse.
And the doctors won't admit it
.

She felt herself begin to tremble. Barbara was her last tie to her own home, her parents, her childhood. Half a dozen times she had wanted to go to see her, to reassure herself that Barbara was truly still alive. But there were always more spells to learn, more protection rituals to perform. And there was the deep, dark fear in the back of her mind that if she got close to her, Barbara would die.
Everything I love withers
.