Witch & Curse (9 page)

With a happy sigh, he put the eye back into the box, the box into the hollow, replaced the false brick, and crossed to the phone. He punched in the home office number of his travel agent, who had once been his mistress. He had broken it off with her “for her sake.” She was only one of many whom he had dumped, who thought he had done it for the noble reason of not messing up her life.

“Hey, Pat, my love,” he said easily, “yes, it's me. Listen, I need a ticket ASAP to San Francisco. Open-end return, okay?”

Upstairs in his bedroom, Jer touched his forehead. A sudden, brutal headache squeezed his temples. Breathing deeply, he intoned a spell to ward away pain. Nothing happened, and the pain got worse.

When in doubt, take Tylenol
, he thought wearily,
rolling over.
And why do I even bother trying to talk to my father?

He raised up on his elbows. Then he froze.

At the foot of the bed, magical green energy swirled in an oval shape about six feet high. It was about three feet across, and as it hovered in the air, a darker shape appeared in the center. Veins of deep ivy green crackled from it, and layers and shards of glowing forms tumbled around it in a circular motion, like the pieces of glass in a shifting kaleidoscope.

The shaper grew, and Jer could make out a head, shoulders, and limbs. It was a human figure.

The oval bobbled and began to close, and the figure cocked its head as if startled, observing the shrinking perimeter, then looked straight at Jer. The features were unclear. He felt, rather than saw, its gaze.

What Jer did next, he knew was not of his own choosing. He crawled on his hands and knees to the foot of his bed and held out his left hand. His mouth opened, and he spoke sounds he had never heard before.

From the oval, scarlet and green energy crackled, then darted forward to connect with his fingers.

Violently, Jer was thrown back against the bed, slamming his already aching head against the head-board. It felt as if his skull were being cracked open
with a hammer, and for a moment he sprawled in a heap, unable to move. Finally, with a grunt, he sat back up, dizzy and sick to his stomach from the pain.

Once again the beams shot forward. The jolt was enough to knock him off the bed, and it spread over him like a pulsating blanket, pinning him to the floor. It shimmered over him from head to foot, sizzling, sending tendrils of aching, jittery sensation throughout his body. Shutting his eyes tightly, he braced himself for more pain, but this time none came. Something new was happening; it was as if something were trying to find a way inside him, poking and prodding the surface of his skin for an opening . . . or a weakness.

He spoke words of magic, very strong, very powerful, to kill the entity or the charge or whatever it was, or at least to render it inert. Though the sensation lessened, it didn't completely dissipate. He tried another spell. Nothing happened.

Hell with this
, he thought, and opened his eyes.

At the foot of his bed, deep inside the oval, the human shape writhed in agony. The figure was completely engulfed in flames. It fell to its knees, arms flailing, trying to put itself out. Jer watched in horror as it rolled and jerked, its head arched backward, its mouth open in a scream Jer couldn't hear.

The oval constricted, telescoping in, and as Jer
reached toward it, the energy slid off his body like a net and returned to the pinpoint that was all that was left of the shape. He scrambled toward it again, but in the next instant, it winked out of existence. Every trace of it vanished.

The distinctive sound of crackling flames ricocheted through his mind, and then a man's distant voice, faint but filled with hatred:

Don't forget. She did this to me. Don't trust the witch. Show her no mercy or this will happen to you
.

Then a loud wailing filled Jer's head; the resulting pain made him cry out and jerk into a fetal position, his arms protectively cradling his throbbing skull.

He had no idea how long he lay that way, but when he came to, it was morning, his head no longer hurt, and his father had left for San Francisco.

Part Two: Samhain
Lifting the Veil

SAMHAIN
“When Death stalks the earth, witches come to play. For of all creatures they have
nothing to fear, yea, only they.”

“And I saw in that century a great darkness spreading across the land. It was a darkness born of strife and vengeance given birth centuries before. I saw the power wielded by two families and the destruction that they brought. It was as though all the demons of Hell had been brought forth to walk the earth and all manner of wickedness had been set loose so that good men trembled in their homes.”

—Gregory the Wise, 1152

FOUR

SNOW MOON

And now our dark purpose nearly done
We thank thee, Lord of Day, God of Sun
Deveraux answer your dread behest
We kill well on the Eve, on the Morrow, we feast

Our Lady guide us on this night
As we strive to finish well right
Cahorses' Purpose dark and strong
Help us House and Circle prolong

San Francisco, California

It had been Barbara's decision to hold two funeral services, one for her daughter on Wednesday, and one for Holly's parents the following day. As an E.R. doc, Barbara had knowledge of potent tranquilizers, and that was the only thing that got Holly through the ordeal of Tina's burial. Today would be a stronger test.

Now they stood on fresh grass beside her parents'
graves at Our Lady of Sorrows Memorial Park, Barbara in the same black long-sleeved wool dress she had worn to her daughter's funeral, Holly in the same black stretch skirt, boots, and black shirt. Most of the attendees wore black or navy. Elise's and Daniel's coworkers stood somberly behind the minister and the rows of chairs; their closer friends looked miserable on the gray folding chairs, eyes swollen with tears. There was her mom's yoga coach; there, her father's golf friends. Holly's classmates and her pack of stable brats had shown, but all she could do at the church service and now at the grave sites was register their presence with unblinking eyes.

Two matching mahogany caskets were poised above the opened rectangles, flowers heaped on them in equal amounts.

My parents' bodies are in there
, she thought, trying to block out the images that formed. Most vivid was the nightmarish face of her father as she'd awakened in the hospital. She shuddered, feeling sick to her stomach, wishing the service was over and never wanting it to end. Wanting to be suspended here in time, so she wouldn't have to go on without them. Her mom. Her dad.
This is the part that's the nightmare. I'll wake up from this soon. I swear I will
.

A thin-faced, wrinkled, old minister Holly didn't
know going on about ashes and dust until she wanted to scream at him to shut up. Tears streamed down her face and she choked back a sob as Barbara gave her right hand a tight squeeze.

Her newfound aunt stood on her left, and a man who had arrived late at the service and had been introduced to her simply as Michael stood beside Marie-Claire with his arm around her waist. Holly assumed he was her aunt's husband, but no one had said so. He was very good-looking. His clothes were expensive. His loafers were like the ones her father had splurged on the last time they'd gone shopping in the city—over five hundred dollars a pair.

How can I even notice such things when I'm burying my parents?

The man craned his neck forward and looked at her. The heat rose to her face and she grew even more ashamed, as if he knew she'd been checking him out.

“It'll be over soon,” Barbara murmured. She was weaving on her feet; Holly doubted she had slept or eaten since the plane had touched down at San Francisco International Airport two nights ago. Holly had heard footsteps each night, and since her aunt was bedded downstairs, it had to have been Barbara walking up and down the hallway, steadily, for hours.

The minister raised a hand and intoned, “ ‘Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' ”

As if on cue, a cloud trailed over the sun, and the sky above Holly and the others darkened. Heads looked up.

It began to sprinkle.

Soft murmurs spread throughout the crowd and the minister looked up, temporarily losing his place. Umbrellas
fwapped
open and people moved in close, some sharing with others, and one of the attorneys from Daddy's office held his umbrella above the minister's head, who said, “Thank you,” and pressed on.

The sky darkened as black, smoky clouds rose into thunderheads; lightning crackled inside them, and the sky rolled like a kettledrum.

It began to rain in earnest. A few people ducked bare heads apologetically at Holly and Barbara and began to leave. As Barbara accepted someone's proffered umbrella and opened it, she muttered, “I should have thought of tents.”

It was Holly's turn to squeeze her hand. She didn't feel the rain; she didn't feel anything . . .

. . . except the man beside her aunt, watching her more closely now. He smiled faintly at her, and she shivered and looked away again.

The flowers on the caskets were being drenched,
the ink on the florist cards blurring. Holly felt a flash of unreasonable anger at Barbara.
This is San Francisco, for God's sake; why
didn't
you think of tents?

Time passed, she didn't know how much of it, but the rain turned into a storm; Holly couldn't hear the words of the minister at all. Yet he droned on, completely ignoring everything else, oblivious that now most of the attendees were fleeing to their cars.

The clouds rumbled more intensely; then suddenly, without warning, a bolt of lightning shot down from the sky and hit an evergreen tree about a hundred yards away. To a chorus of surprised shouts, it burst into flame, which was quickly dampened by the oncoming torrents of rain. Nevertheless, Holly was jostled by the electric charge and felt the heat. Chaos broke out; there were screams as people ran in the opposite direction. Soon there was nothing but smoke to prove it had happened at all, and then a few burned limbs on an otherwise healthy tree. But the terror of the moment had ruined the service.

To the few stalwarts who remained, the thin, grayfaced funeral director in his black suit stepped forward with his hands extended.

“I'm very sorry,” he announced, “but we really must leave. It's dangerous to be out here with the lightning.” He gestured at the tree. “Especially with
the metal tips and spines on these umbrellas.”

He walked over to Holly and took her elbow. “I'm so very sorry.” He looked like he meant it.

All she could think of to say was, “Barbara has a covered patio.” She was thinking of the reception. She looked uncomfortably at the caskets.

“We'll lower them after it stops raining,” he said.

Then she was being herded somewhere. It was the limo; and the person who was escorting her was the stranger, Michael. He put his hand gently on the crown of her head and said, “Duck down.”

She did so. The door on the other side opened, and Barbara Davis-Chin got in, followed by Aunt Marie-Claire. Michael slid in next to Holly and shut the door.

Barbara gathered her up and held her tightly. She was crying. “This is horrible. This is so horrible.” She brushed Holly's sopping wet hair away from her face with a shaking hand. “Oh, my God, what a disaster.”

Marie-Claire nodded unhappily. She asked, “Do you think anyone will come to the reception?”

“Oh, God.” Barbara shook her head. “I can't deal with that.”

“We'll handle it,” Michael announced comfortingly. “Marie-Claire and I.”

Taking her cue from him, Holly's aunt nodded. “Yes. We will.”

“Thank you. I think Holly and I will just go to my room and lie down.” Barbara pulled Holly more closely against herself.

“I'll make you some tea,” Aunt Marie-Claire soothed. “I'll keep the guests away from both of you.”