Witch & Curse (37 page)

The stakes have risen considerably
, she thought wryly.

Nicole shivered. She had seen too much in the past year. Too much death, too much horror.
Too much magic
. The power that she had felt when she linked with Holly and Amanda had been terrifying. She
couldn't deal with it.
And so here I am, in the middle of Spain trying to forget who and what I am
.

Another sound, a soft step perhaps, reached Nicole's ears. This time the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Someone was behind her, she could feel it. She increased her speed, desperately fighting the urge to glance behind and see who or what was there.

Don't let it be a bird; don't let it be a bird; please, especially, don't let it be a falcon
.

Suddenly she heard it, the crackle of electricity. She threw herself to the side just as a bolt of lightning ripped through the place where she had been standing. She landed hard on her side and twisted quickly to see where the attack had come from. Pain knifed through her. A cloaked figure stood ten feet away, laughing crazily.

“This is my home, witch. You have no business being here,” a hissing female voice informed her.

“I'm not. . . not a witch,” Nicole stammered.

“You lie! I can feel it. And since you have trespassed you shall be punished.”

The figure raised its arms and began chanting in a strange tongue.

Nicole half-stumbled to her feet, every protection spell she had ever known fleeing her mind. She was
helpless. She turned to run, opened her mouth to cry out, and fell against another hooded figure.

She screamed as she stared up to where the face should have been. All she could see was darkness. From the darkness a voice began to speak in a low, commanding tone. Nicole pushed herself away and took a half-step in the direction of the witch. What she saw brought her up short.

Four other cloaked figures had materialized as if from air. One of them extended an arm and the witch collapsed to the ground, clawing at her throat.

“Philippe, what have you done?” the figure behind her shouted in English.

“I only took her speech until such time as she is able to speak civilly to a stranger.” That voice was very French.

Nicole whirled back to face the figure she had fallen against. Slowly, long, pale hands reached up to pull back the hood. A shock of dark curly hair framed a handsome face with piercing eyes. A wry smile twisted his lips as he looked down at Nicole.

“Welcome to Madrid, little
bruja
. I am José Luís, warlock and servant of the White Magic. And these,” he added, gesturing to the others as they also removed their hoods, “are my friends.”

On the beach, Holly stared up at Amanda.

“What happened?” she asked slowly.

“I was going to ask you that,” Amanda retorted. “God, Hoi, did you fall in?”

“I . . . I don't know.” She grimaced at her wet clothes. “I ... I dreamed or something.” She looked back up at her cousin. “How did you find me?”

“I've been looking for you everywhere,” Amanda said.

“What's wrong?” Holly demanded.

Amanda shook her head grimly. “I'll explain in the car. Let's go.”

She reached down and, clasping Holly's hand, helped her to stand. Holly leaned gratefully on her cousin as they hurried toward the car.

“I'm soaking wet,” Holly protested as Amanda opened the passenger door of Richard's car.

Amanda gave her a gentle shove. “Get in. We've got bigger things to worry about than upholstery.”

Holly acquiesced and sat down, grimacing at the squishing sounds her clothes made as they encountered the seat. She didn't even have time to put on her seat belt before Amanda started the car, put it in gear, and floored it.

Holly scrambled to buckle herself in. As they flew around a corner, Holly smacked her head painfully
against the window. She could feel more sea water dripping out of her ears as her head tilted.

“Ouch! Slow down, Amanda!”

“No time,” Amanda muttered between clenched teeth.

Amanda cast a quick glance her way before putting the car into another sliding turn, tires screaming in outrage.

Another corner and Holly's stomach lurched even more. When the car straightened out, she looked at Amanda. The other girl's jaw was set and her face was pale—too pale. A faint trickle of blood crept down the side of her forehead and started tracing a path down her cheek.

Shocked, Holly saw a lump on the side of Amanda's head and noted that her hair was clumped and bloody around it.

“Michael's pumping up the volume,” Amanda explained. “I was attacked at the house by some kind of invisible force. So I called Kari's house. No answer. Silvana and Tante Cecile's. Nothing. No Tommy, either. I worked my way down the list, and no one's picking up. So I figured: headquarters. Which for the time being is Kari's apartment. But I didn't want to go there without you.”

Another corner forced Holly to turn her attention
back to the road, and she wished she knew a spell that could keep her from heaving.

Holly said weakly, “That sounds bad. Punch the turbo.”

They arrived at Kari's apartment complex about a minute too late for Holly's stomach. She staggered from the car, collapsed onto her knees, and thought she might be sick—again. Amanda bounded from the driver's seat and headed for Kari's door at a dead run.

Amanda shouted from inside the apartment, and Holly pulled herself back up to her feet and stumbled toward the door. Inside, an overwhelming stench of gas caused her to fall to her knees and retch again.

In the corner Amanda was frantically working over four inert forms. She looked up and shouted, “Holly, turn the gas off!”

Unable to stand, Holly crawled to the kitchen, coughing and gagging the entire way. She made it to the oven and checked it. Everything was off.

“The pipes must have burst!” Holly forced herself to shout.

“Then come help me!” Amanda yelled.

Holly dragged herself out of the kitchen and over to Amanda. Her head was starting to spin and she felt
herself losing focus. Suddenly Amanda clasped her palm and Holly felt the now-familiar surge of power that pulsated around them and through them. Her head cleared and she stared Amanda in the eyes.

Together they began to chant over their four friends.

Slowly Tommy stirred and looked up at them. “Something is binding us,” he slurred.

Together Amanda and Holly passed their hands through the air over Tommy's body until they could feel something break free. He sat up abruptly and turned to help the other three.

Kialish, Eddie, and then Kari woke and were freed. At last the six of them stumbled to the door and made it outside just as the gas inside sparked.

They fell to the ground as a ball of fire washed over the top of them. In unison they began chanting. The skies opened up and rain poured down, dousing the flames. The thick waters quickly snuffed out the fire inside the apartment.

“Cool!” an onlooker cried appreciatively.

Holly turned to see one of the other grad students at the college standing and staring.

“Talk about your synchronicity. Fire, then rain.”

“Amazing,” Holly said weakly.

Then she got sick again.

Michael: Seattle

I almost had them this time
, Michael thought as he paced in front of the altar in his Seattle home.
It went wrong somewhere
. He turned and raised his hands in angry fists. He would have his revenge. The witches would still pay.

Laurent, his ancestor, would know what to do. The phantom knew more than Michael wished . . . including the fact that, just as in 1666, the Deveraux Coven had recently been censured by the leader of the Supreme Coven, the most powerful ruling body on the warlock side of Coventry.

“Laurent! My lord and master, prithee, come to me,” Michael petitioned, in perfect medieval French.

Nothing.

“Laurent,” Michael called, respectfully.
“Je vous en prie
. A moment?”

“I think you'd rather talk to me,” a voice behind him chortled.

Michael whirled around and found himself staring at a tiny creature. It was black and misshapen, its face broad and flat like a frog's, its nose more of a demonic snout, and fangs curled over the narrow lips. Its eyes were reptilian, green, and virtually spinning with madness.

“Where is my ancestor?” Michael asked carefully. He had no idea what this thing was doing here; for all he knew, it was here to kill him.

“I have a ssssecret,” the creature informed him in a sing-song voice.

It's an imp
, Michael thought.
I've heard of them; never seen one
. . . .
Laurent may have sent one instead of answering my call himself
.

“A ssssecret,” the imp reiterated.

Michael stared at it. The thing rubbed its hands, one over the other, each finger ending in a slice of cartilage that was more than a fingernail, less than a bone. It was hunched and very, very ugly.

The imp wagged its brow above elongated, hate-filled eyes. “I know about the curse,” it bragged.

“Curse? What curse?” Michael demanded in his most authoritative tone of voice.

The imp chittered like a squirrel. It bobbed and swayed as if it were completely mad.

“The curse against your sworn enemies.”

A cautious smile tugged at Michael's lips. “Cahors?” he asked carefully. Then, in case his usage of the ancient name confused the creature, he added, “Cathers?”

“Yessss.” The imp nodded, leaning forward as if to share something very, very interesting. “They don't like water much.”

“And why is that?” Michael asked, enjoying for the moment a bit of fencing.

The imp pulled back its lips, exposing its teeth as it
grinned wildly at him. It said in a low, dramatic voice, “They tend to drown. That is the curse your ancestors laid on them. Drowning.”

Michael was disappointed. The crazed, repulsive thing didn't know what it was talking about. If that was true, then Holly would have drowned in the ocean three days ago when he had tried to suck her in, or a year before, in the river with her parents.

“You're talking of dunking witches,” he said dismissively. “If they float, they're guilty. If they drown, they're inno—”

The imp shook its head impatiently. “No, no, they
tend
to drown, true,” the imp said. It pointed a single, scaly finger skyward. “But their loved ones
always
do. That is the curse laid upon the Cahors witches. By one of your own ancestors, may I hasten to add.” It smiled again, as if it were about to fling itself at Michael and chew his face off his skull.

“Indeed,” Michael said slowly.

“Indeed,” the imp assured him.

A smile—
ah, the possibilities!
—spread across Michael Deveraux's face.

France, 13th century

“Your daughter,
madame
,” the emissary from the Deveraux announced with a flourish. Bowing over his
leg, he gestured to the liveried servant who had accompanied him. The other man, a mere villein dressed up like a peacock in Deveraux red and green, smirked as he opened a small ebony box and tipped it over.

Ashes and small pieces of bone spilled onto the carpet that ran the length of the Great Hall of Castle Cahors. Like motes in the dying afternoon twilight, all that was left of Catherine's only child drifted down; sparkles of blue—the remnants of her witch blood's essence—caught the light like tiny sapphires, or the very tears of the Goddess herself.

Seated on her carved wooden throne, wearing a formal gown of mourning black, her hair pulled back and covered with a veil, Catherine, High Priestess of the Cahors Coven, remained stiff-lipped, but her heart caught in her throat. Though she knew that Isabeau had burned to death in the fire, the evidence still shook her. But she was a queen, and the daughter of kings and queens; she had lost kinsmen in the Crusades, in other battles, assassinations, and duels. Death was no stranger to her family, nor was the concept of sacrificing one of their own to further the ambitions of the family.

On the walls of her Great Hall, swords, shields, spears, lances, and battle axes hung crossed, in rows, and in circles. There was no room on the walls of the
Romanesque room for art, only the stark realities of her existence. Each moment, each day that the Cahors house continued could be counted a victory. Without her vigilance, the Deveraux would have surely found a way to grind the bones of all the Cahors to dust and ash, and to parade their triumph before stricken Coventry, now faced with the prospect of an unchecked and savage family of warlocks—the Deveraux.

Beyond her casement window, smoke still roiled from the ruins of Deveraux castle, the result of her carefully orchestrated scheme to burn the warlocks in their beds. Her daughter, Isabeau, had been instrumental in that, betraying Jean, heir of the Deveraux Coven, to whom she had been wed mere months before.