Witch & Curse Page 22

  “Go back to sleep,” Pierre instructed boy and beast. Both dropped their heads back down and closed their eyes.

  The keeper had worked in the stables since he was his son’s age. He had been the head stableman for the past ten years. Nothing the animals did surprised him anymore. For that matter, nothing his masters did surprised him either. He had seen and heard many things over the years that would have made a lesser man run and hide. He prided himself on his courage, though, and his loyalty. His was a good job, one that he could keep along with his life if he just kept his mouth shut. Loose lips were what had gotten him this position, the loose lips of the previous stablemaster. The man had talked too much and when they had found him dead, trampled to death by the horses, Pierre had vowed that he would not make the same mistake.

  He walked slowly down the line of stalls, gently enough not to waken the sleeping horses and loudly enough not to startle the ones who were yet awake. He stopped outside of Thunder’s stall. The big stallion was always jumpy, and Pierre believed it was he who had been making all the noise. The horse was fast asleep, though, on his side and snoring gently.

  The squeal came again, from the last stall, and Pierre felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he moved toward the dark head of the gelding, Philippe. The horse’s eyes were wild and he tossed his head when Pierre tried to lay his hand on his muzzle. Philippe was the gentlest horse in the stable, the steadiest, the calmest, and the one that Pierre had always sworn could see things that people could not.

  Instead of being comforted by his presence, Philippe grew more agitated, kicking at the stall and beginning to foam a little at the mouth in anxiety. Pierre felt the bile rising in the back of his throat as the horse’s fear communicated itself to him. Something was dreadfully wrong. He heard something behind him that was not yet a sound, but more of a feeling, a thought that tickled his mind.

  He turned and tried to draw breath for one strangled scream.

  And as he gurgled and died in the straw, the Cahors wife of young Jean, the Lady Isabeau, looked down on him with pity. Then she beckoned a young man in silver and black chain mail forward and said to the Cahors assassin, “Go with the protection of the Goddess,” and the Massacre had begun.

  “Black Fire,” Jer gasped to his Coven. “They did it because we would not share the Black Fire . . . everyone thought it was lost with the death of Jean . . . my death . . . but I did not die . . . I went to Normandy . . . I found others like me . . . we were persecuted . . . the Italian woman nearly wiped us out . . . to England . . . and there, we found Cahors descendents, and we followed them… Quebec, New York, Pennsylvania….”

  “Yes, yes,” Laurent whispered, seeing into a heavily warded place where Michael and Eli could not go. “Yes, I see it. I see what my son saw. I know.”

  The decaying corpse of the nobleman regarded his two acolytes, Deveraux father and son, and said, “I will share the secret at last. The secret of the Black Fire. And we will use it on Mead Moon to destroy the House of Cahors forever.”

  Michael said, “What of my other son?”

  Laurent regarded the man. “Have you perhaps thought to strengthen his magical abilities by pitting him against yourself?”

  Eli gaped at his father, who laughed and said, “It worked, didn’t it? In his eagerness to protect those three little witches, he has learned the secret of the Black Fire, hasn’t he?”

  “If he can be brought back into the fold, he might live,” Laurent pondered.

  “We’ll all live,” Michael said airily. “I know now that you need us, Duc Laurent. We have form and shape in this world, and you don’t. So . . .”

  The ghostly Deveraux chuckled and said, “We’ll see. Mead Moon will tell the tale.”

  The three cousins talked about leaving town for Mead Moon. Then Tommy showed up at their house, breathless and freaked out, and said, “I found this on my bed when I got home from school today.”

  It was the beak of a bird wrapped in ivy, with a note that read: Give this to Holly if you want her to live.

  On the other side of the note was written:

  Greetings to the Leader of the Cahors Coven from the Leader of the Rebel Coven: Play it out. We’ll show, and we’ll help you.

  —J. D.

  “Is it Jer or is it Jean who wrote the note?” Amanda asked.

  “And can we trust him?” Nicole wondered aloud. “Isabeau betrayed him, and he swore vengeance. He’s followed her through time and space, and I’m not so sure what he will do if he finds her again. Especially on Mead Moon.”

  Nicole said, “It’s Jer now, not Jean.”

  And he loves me, Holly thought. Or does he?

  The three glanced uncertainly at one another, then at her. Tommy said, “You’re the big cheese, Holly. Whatever you say, we’ll do.”

  “We?” she asked, looking at him with raised brows.

  “Hey, I was your lab partner. It doesn’t get any scarier than that. I figure this . . . pfft, no biggie.”

  “Thanks, Tommy,” Holly said warmly. “We need all the help we can get.”

  And so, to play it out. The show would go on.

  On Mead Moon, Holly and Amanda sat with Uncle Richard in the heavily warded auditorium watching Nicole’s debut as Juliet. Nerves were frayed, senses alert.

  Tante Cecile had phoned three days ago to say that she was on her way in from the airport, and she would be there soon.

  She had not been heard from since.

  “ . . . cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of heaths five fathom deep; and then anon drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes—”

  Holly sat bolt upright, heart pounding in fear. Amanda had nudged her.

  “Trance?” Amanda whispered, and Holly was very afraid.

  “Dunno,” she mouthed.

  “ . . . and, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again.”

  The actor playing Mercutio was really hamming it up.

  “This is that very Mab that plats the manes of horses in the night.”

  Horses. She remembered a stable filled with horses and people. Not San Francisco. Somewhere else.

  Castle Deveraux.

  Her heart pounded. She was perspiring with fear.

  “My mind misgives some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night’s revels,” Romeo intoned gravely.

  “Not if I can help it,” she whispered.

  Amanda nodded slowly and turned her eyes back to the stage, where Nicole was about to make another appearance as Juliet. On the other side of Amanda, Richard sat quietly, but Holly could see the tears streaming down her uncle’s face. Tommy was backstage working as “propmaster.” Nobody was fooled by his sudden interest in theater, but they assumed he was crushing on Nicole and had taken the job to be near her—an assumption magically encouraged by Holly.

  Nicole was stunning as Juliet. She carried herself with grace, and the passion that burned from her eyes made her entire face radiant.

  “My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy,” Nicole intoned on stage.

  “This is weirdly appropriate,” Amanda whispered. “It’s really freaking me out.”

  “I know the feeling,” Holly whispered back. “And I—”

  Then she fell into a black place and she was—

  Isabeau let the other assassins in, then retired to her rooms. Soon her kinsmen would come and set her world upside down. She had devised a plan, though. It was a betrayal of her family, her mother, perhaps even herself, but she was forsworn to it. It was a true oath, not the lie she had spoken while she touched the dead lambkin’s heart beside her mother. No matter what the cost, Jean must live.

  She had servants waiting at the river ready to spirit them away as soon as it was time. Patience, she schooled herself. Soon they could start a new life together, create a new coven,
and defeat the violence and hatred of their kin. Their love was strong and it would shine like a beacon and attract others. Together they would forge a legacy that would not be soon forgotten.

  A step in the hall made her start. She strained her ears, listening, was it time so soon? No, it was a servant, late to finish his chores and now hurrying off to bed, to sleep. The Lady willing, he might even wake again whereas his masters would not.

  Her hands shook and she clenched them in her lap, willing herself to be calm. She would have but one chance, one hope. Everything must go exactly as she had planned. To move too soon would spell disaster, to move an instant too late would bring certain death to her beloved Jean. So, she waited, ready, anxious, and watchful.

  The sense of urgency began to press more and more heavily upon Holly. She found herself squirming in her chair, only half aware of her cousin’s lament about the slowness of time while waiting for word of her love. Holly felt like two people, one who belonged right where she was in a high school auditorium watching her cousin in Romeo and Juliet. The other was . . .

  Isabeau leaped to her feet, her straining ears hearing the frightened shouts of men. She snatched the tiny bottle of magic powder in her hand. It was time! She fought the urge to run and see the battle; soon enough the battle would be upon her and it would consume both her and Jean if she wasn’t very fast and very clever.

  As she took to the stairs she reminded herself that her kinsmen were equally cunning. If they were just now being discovered they would have been here already for a couple of hours. The thought lent her feet wings as she raced into Jean’s chambers. She muttered an oath under her breath as she turned this way and that. She had drugged him so that he would sleep until she came to revive him. She knew she had put enough fernroot in his evening drink to make him sleep for two nights, so where was he? Suddenly a burning arrow whistled past her ear and landed on the fur-covered bed. The fire spread quickly until the smoke began filling her lungs.

  Holly began to cough and she heard a few others follow suit. Her nose began to itch. Someone must be smoking. She looked around in irritation, wondering who it was. She saw no one, but the smell was definitely getting stronger. Now other people were looking around for the source. Suddenly someone shouted—

  “Fire!”

  Isabeau could hear a dozen voices take up the cry below. Jean’s was not one of them. She would have known his voice out of a crowd of hundreds. She took one last frantic look around the room before the smoke forced her to the door. As she turned to go, a finger of flame reached out and touched the hem of her garment. She smothered it quickly, backing out the door, before it could engulf her entire dress. She ran to each of the other rooms, quickly scanning each only to turn to the next. At some point she began shouting his name, desperately hoping he would hear her and answer.

  At last she found her way back to the stables, where flames were already engulfing both man and beast. A few words sent the doors flinging open before her only to slam shut again after her passage. Any pursuers could not follow; unfortunately, neither could those seeking safety.

  After the stables she was in the courtyard racing back toward the main hall. Everywhere around her men fell, victims of arrows or boiling oil. The stench of burning hair and flesh was worse than the smoke, and Isabeau was forced to slow her steps as she began to gag. Still, she pushed on as quickly as she could while her chest and body heaved in revolt.

  She made it back to the great hall and tried once more to shout for Jean. The acrid smoke was burning her lungs, though, so her words came out as little more than a whisper. Time was running out and she fought the panic that rose inside her. She would find him, she must.

  She turned and stumbled toward the kitchens. There, the massive fireplaces, large enough to roast a bullock each, blazed out of control, dragon’s tongues gouting forth from each of the cavernous stone maws. Of the cooks and their helpers she saw no sign and could only hope that they were far away and safe. There was a metallic tang in the air mixed with the smoke from cookpots melted inside the fireplaces.

  Quitting the kitchens, she dodged a figure all in flames, barreling down the passageway. She sobbed with frustration as the firestorm yielded up shrieks of agony from every quarter of the keep. Within and beyond these burning walls, her kinsmen were putting Castle Deveraux to the torch. With vicious abandon they were massacring the men of the Deveraux House. That had been agreed upon, and she had helped in every way that she could. No one knew of her private bargain with the Goddess, which was to spare her husband and allow them both to escape.

  She clenched her fists as she burst into the bailey. The flames illuminated the scene as brightly as any summer day. A flock of geese, all burning, squonked and screamed as they died. Lambkins and their ewes had fallen on their sides, their wool smoking. None of this had been agreed to. Then she saw her own kinsman, her Uncle Robert, rise up off Petite-Marie, daughter of a noble house in Paris, who had been sent to Castle Deveraux to learn the ways of a great lady. The poor child lay still as death, her skirts tattered, her legs uncovered. As she lay weeping, Isabeau’s uncle pulled his sword from its sheath and held it with both arms above his head, preparing to drive it into the heart of the inert form.

  “Non!”Isabeau screamed as loudly as she could. Robert glanced up at her, then gave his head a savage shake and slammed his sword into Petite-Marie’s heart. Blood gushed into the air as Isabeau ran to him and wildly pummeled him on the shoulders and chest, kicking at him, ignoring the spray of blood.

  “This was not part of the bargain!” she shrieked at him. “Only the men! My mother said only the men!”

  “You slut!” bellowed a voice Isabeau knew well.

  “The doors are locked!” came the hysterical cry from the first person to reach an exit. Holly jumped to her feet, grabbing Amanda’s arm and Uncle Richard’s hand as she moved toward the stage, fighting the mass of people suddenly intent on escaping the auditorium.

  “Why aren’t the sprinklers going on?” Holly shouted.

  “Magic much?” Amanda yelled back.

  “Girls, you’re going the wrong way!” Uncle Richard shouted.

  “We have to get to Nicole!” Holly cried to Amanda. “There are magics at work here, I can feel them!” She didn’t know if Amanda had actually heard her, but she came along willingly at least.

  Holly’s uncle was another story; he started pulling the two of them toward the closest exit and saying, “Keep behind me.”

  With an aggressiveness she hadn’t known he possessed, he began pushing people out of his way as he continually checked on her and Amanda over his shoulder. He was like a lion protecting his cubs.

  Holly said to Amanda, “We have to do something!”

  “Don’t panic,” Richard assured them. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  The two looked at each other; then they clasped hands and Holly whispered a Spell of Glamour in ancient Latin. Then she added, “Uncle Richard, go outside. We are safely with you.”

  She wriggled her other hand free. Amanda did the same, and Richard barrelled along, apparently unaware that they were no longer with him.

  Halfway to the stage they found Nicole, struggling against the crowd. Her beautiful gown was torn in several places and she was out of breath.

  “Did I just see you bite someone?” Holly asked her cousin.

  Amanda had a more pressing question. “Where’s Tommy?”

  The three raced backstage.

  An unearthly shriek rose as a pillar of fire erupted where they had just been standing. The heat from it washed over Holly, blistering her skin. She threw herself blindly forward, trying to put as much distance between herself and the hungry flames as possible. Even as her heart began slamming around in her chest like a frightened bird, she clenched her fists and felt power rising inside her.

  Amanda made it to the stage a heartbeat ahead of them. She pulled herself onto it and had disappeared from sight before Holly could stop her. Nicole bounded onto the stage
and Holly began to follow her. She stopped in her tracks, though, when she heard Nicole chanting.

  It sounded like a protection spell of some sort. They were going to need a lot of protection, but not half as much as Jer was or the people still milling about trying to find an exit. A memory flashed back to Holly. She remembered her vision of Isabeau running through the burning barn, doors locking behind her, trapping everyone inside.

  She stared again at the people. Five minutes before, they had been watching their friends and children and grandchildren in a play. None of them had asked for this. None of them could have expected this. They were just going about their lives when they were struck down.

  Jer had done this. He had told them to stay, play it out. . . .

  As she stood staring, Amanda reappeared with Tommy in tow. He was ashen and coughing, but otherwise seemed fine. Holly gestured to one man who was on fire. He was running crazily around in circles while three men tried to pull him to the floor to help put out the flames. Blinded by his pain, he fought them off, never realizing that they were trying to help. He would never know how close he had come to being saved as the flames engulfed his body forcing the others to scatter.

  “It’s all happening again!” Holly shouted. “The massacre! These people, they’re ours to protect. We can’t let them die. We have to stop it.”

  The three girls joined hands as the blanket of smoke grew thicker. Holly said, “Open the eyes of those who do not see and open the doors and set them all free.”

  Holly felt the magic flowing through her, tingling where her hands clasped with her cousins’. Suddenly, all the doors to the auditorium burst open and the haze lightened enough for people to begin to see well enough to stumble outside. In the distance, sirens wailed. The fire engines were on the way.