Witch & Curse Page 28

  Poor Uncle Richard had discovered the truth in a horribly prosaic way: Marie-Claire had kept a diary, and Richard found it. She had written of her nights with Michael in unstinting detail and Richard had read every word.

  “Daddy?” Amanda asked gently as she knelt by his chair.

  He sighed and ticked his gaze to her, his eyes rheumy and bloodshot. There was a week’s growth of beard on his face. He smelled.

  She and Holly had not been able to talk Richard into moving away. He was determined to fall apart in his own home. Since he didn’t work anymore, letting his business die day by day, week by week, it had proven to be a challenge to ward and protect the house while he was around. But the coven had managed it. He was relatively safe . . . or to be completely frank, in as much danger as the others.

  “Uncle Richard?” Holly queried. She moved her hand and blessed him. He didn’t seem to notice the furtive hand gesture, and it didn’t seem to make him any better.

  “I’ll make you some coffee.” Amanda brushed past Holly and went into the kitchen.

  Holly took up the vigil next to Uncle Richard’s chair. She put her hand on his and said, “I’m so sorry. “

  He turned his head and stared at her; and in the dim light of the moon, she saw that his eyes had rolled up in his head. Startled, she drew away.

  But he caught her hand and held it tightly, nearly crushing the bones. His voice eked out, weird and disembodied, as he said, in Michael Deveraux’s voice, “Die soon, Holly Cathers.

  “Die horribly.”

  Nicole: Spain, October

  As they crept down the streets of Madrid, Philippe kept close to Nicole, obviously eager to be near her, perhaps more intent on keeping her safe. He was a rock, and she was grateful for his strength and his interest in keeping close by; for the first time in a long while she felt safe. He was not as dramatically handsome as José Luís, who had wild Gypsy blood in his veins. He was more like her Amanda: pleasing to look at, but not startling. The extremes of looks and emotions were left to others of their covens: in Amanda’s case, Nicole tended to steal the show; in Philippe’s, it was José Luís.

  Philippe did stand out from his coven, though, in that he wasn’t Spanish. He was from Agen, a small town in France.

  Now he spoke to their leader, saying, “José Luís, we need to leave the streets. It’s not safe tonight, not even for us.”

  “Tienes razón,” José Luís agreed. He raised his voice so that the others could clearly hear him, “Come, we go.”

  They had been together for several days, keeping on the run, finding safe houses that José Luís and his lieutenant, Philippe, had set up long ago. They were warriors in the cause of White Magic, and they had many enemies. Philippe told her that something had been tracking them before she had arrived, but she had the feeling that her presence was like a homing beacon, pointing the way to their coven.

  Alicia, the witch Philippe had silenced, had left the coven, jealous of Nicole and irritated that she had been charmed when she’d spoken against her.

  José Luís was the tallest of the group, and the best dressed. He was wearing black leather pants and a black-washed silk shirt. His curly hair fell past his shoulders, and he had casually pulled it back and secured it in a ponytail with an elastic band he took from his pocket. From his features she would have guessed his age to be about thirty, but his eyes looked older, much older.

  Philippe, who appeared a few years younger, had swarthy skin and bright green eyes, a startling combination in contrasts. He wore jeans and sweaters against the cold of the Madrid autumn, expensively tooled cowboy boots, and, on occasion, a cowboy hat. His chestnut hair was cut short, very stylish, and on the one occasion that she had touched it, she was startled by how silky it felt to her touch.

  Though he was usually jovial, now he was all business.

  He feels it too, she thought.

  José Luís had introduced the oldest member of his coven as “Señor Alonzo, our benefactor, our father figure.”

  Alonzo had snorted in derision, but extended his hand to Nicole. She had clasped it, and in one smooth movement he twisted her hand so that he could kiss the top of it. He released it easily and stepped back. Everything about the man bespoke grace and elegance.

  Armand was their “conscience,” José Luís had told her. His dark eyes crackled and his mouth was set in a hard line. There was something dark and dangerous about him, as if he were a villain from some old-time movie.

  Pablo was José Luís’s younger brother. He looked younger than Nicole herself, perhaps fourteen, and he was very shy.

  At the time she had met them all, she had thought, What a motley assortment!

  And Pablo had replied quietly, in heavily accented English, “But we get the job done.”

  Startled, Nicole had stared at him. Philippe chuckled. “Pablo is gifted in ways that are beyond the rest of us.” The boy just blushed harder and continued to stare down at his shoes.

  “And who are you?” José Luís had asked at last.

  It was her turn to blush. “My name is Nicole Anderson. I’m just . . . I’m . . . visiting Spain.”

  “You’re a long way from your home,” Jose observed, scrutinizing her. “And you are of the witch blood. I sincerely doubt, mi hermosa, that you are . . . visiting Spain.”

  She nodded, tears stinging her eyes.

  “I’m . . . I’m in trouble,” she managed. “Big trouble.”

  “Warlock trouble,” Pablo filled in.

  Nicole nodded. She had no idea if she should tell them what was going on; she worried that she might endanger them. “I . . . I’m so scared.”

  José Luís smoothed over the moment. “Está bien. No te precupes, bruja. You will be safe with us. You can be part of our coven.”

  “But I don’t want to be part of a coven,” she heard herself protesting.

  José Luís had laughed. “It’s a little late for that.”

  And that had been when Philippe stepped forward and said, “I will watch out for you, Nicole.”

  And he had, ever since. It was he who conjured wards around her to deflect magical seeking spells; and he who made sure she had enough to eat when they stopped for meals; and he who watched her in the night as she bedded down, studying the air around her, making sure she never slept close to a window.

  He, who had obviously begun to care for her . . .

  . . . and she for him.

  Now, on the dusty streets of Madrid, the sense of being hunted grew stronger with the darkness. Tonight, Nicole’s senses were screaming that someone—or something—was gaining on them, fast.

  “Philippe is right. I think we should leave,” Pablo announced. “It’s become too dangerous here. We can go to the French border. We have friends there.”

  The others began to murmur, quietly assenting.

  Nicole shook her head and stepped back, pulling her hand from Philippe’s grasp. “I can’t go with you. I’ll . . . I just want to go home. I shouldn’t have left in the first place.” In a tiny voice she added, “It was very cowardly of me.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I understand, but that is not possible at the moment. When it is safe, we will do what we can to see you home.”

  “All the way to Seattle?” she croaked.

  His grin broadened. “Yes, even all the way to Seattle.” He clapped his hands. “Bueno, andale,” he said to the rest of the coven. “La noche esta demasiado peligroso.” The night is too dangerous.

  Several of the covenate made the sign of the cross. Nicole was startled and about to ask about it when the band began to move.

  As if of a single mind, they slunk through the center of Madrid, turning down side streets as one, never speaking, never hesitating. As though in a dream, Nicole allowed herself to be swept along with the five cloaked figures. Philippe once again had her by the hand, and she found herself half trotting to keep up with his long strides.

  An hour passed before they finally stopped in an alley beside a small ca
r. Nicole hesitated as the others climbed in. Philippe smiled at her.

  “We are safe. For the moment.”

  Nicole nodded slowly, staring from him to the car. His smile began to fade, and he glanced at the shadows whence they had come.

  “I sense that there is not much time,” he said. “We must go now if we are to escape. Do you feel it?”

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said unhappily. “I do.”

  It felt as if someone were staring down at them from a great height—like a huge, winged creature preparing to take flight, flap its enormous wings, and pluck all of them up with its razor-sharp talons. She could almost hear an eerie, echoic screech.

  The falcon, she thought. He’s coming.

  Philippe urged Nicole into the car. “This is an old Deux Chevaux,” he told her. “A French car. We call them ‘two horses’ because that’s all the horsepower they have.” He grinned. “But even a Deux Chevaux beats something made in Spain.”

  “Tiene cuidado, macho,” José Luís said with mock menace.

  “Tais-toi!” Philippe shot back. He gave Nicole a quick wink and a smile. “You see? Even in danger, we can joke and insult one another. We are a strong band, Nicole. We will be all right.”

  She tried to smile back, but her anxiety was rising with each heartbeat. She found herself in the front seat wedged between José Luís and Philippe.

  “Um, seat belt,” she murmured, fumbling for the straps.

  “It is okay. I am a good driver,” Philippe informed her with a crooked smile.

  She nodded grimly.

  “We cannot go back for our belongings,” Philippe told her. “Do you have your passport? Your money and things like that?”

  She patted her pockets and nodded. “Yes.” She had brought very few things with her, but she was sorry to give them up. She felt so ... naked with nothing to change into. And no shampoo. No toothbrush.

  Pablo leaned forward and said something to Philippe, who murmured, “Ah, sí” and turned to Nicole. “We’ll buy new things,” he said kindly. “Once we are safe.”

  Three hours later they pulled up to a villa just as dawn broke behind it, the light dancing on the white walls of the low, sprawling country house. Flowers edged a cobbled path to the front door.

  The sight took Nicole’s breath away.

  It’s too beautiful to be dangerous, she thought, knowing in her heart that that didn’t make any sense.

  José Luís stepped out of the car and Nicole moved to follow him, but Philippe laid a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Best to let him go alone. He needs to, how do you say, make a check?”

  Nicole peered out the window and watched as a tall man left the villa and approached José Luís. The two men strode toward each other purposefully, each swaggering slightly. When they got within fifteen feet of each other they began shouting. She couldn’t understand the words, but they didn’t sound friendly.

  The men stopped when they stood nearly toe-to-toe. They were gesturing wildly and seemed to be arguing even more heatedly. At last José Luís threw back his head and laughed. The other man did as well, and then they embraced.

  At last they broke apart and José Luís returned to the car, a smile stretching his sharp features. He gestured for everyone to join him, and as Nicole stepped from the car she shook her head in bewilderment.

  “What was that all about?” she asked him.

  “Just a little family reunion,” José Luís answered with a sparkle in his eye.

  Nicole flipped her hair back over her shoulders and decided not to question him further. At least not about that, she thought. She fell into step with Philippe as José Luís led the group around the house.

  About half a mile behind the villa there was a small cottage, which was, apparently, their safe house. When they reached it, José Luís confidently opened the door and ushered them all inside. The place was small but clean; several cots lined the walls.

  Nicole’s eyelids felt heavy and the crisp white sheets looked cool and inviting.

  I am so tired, she thought. Tired of running. Tired of worrying.

  Wearily she sat down on a chair and slipped off her heavy-soled shoes. Her jeans were dusty. Philippe had given her a sweatshirt that read UNI DE MADRID, and that was dirty too. Her mouth was gritty; when José Luís went to a small cabinet, opened it, and brought out a bottle of wine, she accepted a swig along with the others and used it to rinse out the bad taste. Then someone volunteered that there was soap and shampoo in the bathroom.

  “Mujer,” Philippe said to her, “go and have a, how do you say, a soak?”

  The wine had gone to her head; she felt a little fuzzy as she blurted excitedly, “There’s a bathtub? Really? Are you . . . it’s okay?”

  He gestured to the cottage. “It’s heavily protected. This may be the only chance you have for some while.” He grinned at her and added, “A beautiful woman such as you should have some pleasures.”

  She blinked; warmth coiled in her lower belly and spread, and she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  He’s thinking about me in the tub, she thought.

  As he pulled off his boots, Pablo glanced up at her, reddened, and looked away.

  So is he.

  Not for the first time, she became very aware that she was now the only female in the coven. The other witch, Alicia, had not been very welcomed to begin with, and no one had been sorry to see her go. And yet these men were not precisely warlocks, not in the same violent, harsh way as Eli and his father. They were male witches.

  It’s more like Eddie, Kialish, and Kialish’s father, she thought. It’s a different thing. I wonder what Holly and Amanda would think about that. Maybe Jer’s a male witch too. Maybe that’s why he always had so much trouble fitting in as a Deveraux.

  It was strange. She knew that once, not long before, she would have made the most of the opportunity and basked in the attention of five men. She felt herself blushing and stole a glance at Philippe. All that seemed a long time past. There was only one man she really wanted attention from now.

  Rummaging in the cabinets, Armand, the quiet, serious one, said something to José Luís, who in turn cocked his head questioningly at Nicole.

  “Armand asks, are you Catholic?”

  “No.” She frowned at him, gazing past him at Armand. “Are you?”

  ‘We’re Spanish.” He chuckled. “Bueno, Philippe is French, but sí, we are all Catholic. In fact, we call Armand our ‘conscience’ because he was once a student of the priesthood. He wishes to conduct a Mass for us.” José Luís smiled reassuringly as her lips parted in astonishment. “A white Mass, not a black one.”

  “But ...” She hesitated. “We pray to the Goddess.”

  José Luís shrugged. “It’s all the same, Nicolita. But what I am thinking is, it would be better if you took your soak. We who are of the faith will say our Mass.”

  “All . . . all right.”

  Señor Alonzo held up a finger, saying something to José Luís. He looked puzzled.

  Then Philippe said, “Towels,” and the others nodded. To Nicole, he explained, “They were trying to remember the word in English.” He smiled at her. “They want you to know there are fresh towels in the bath.”

  “Thank you. Gracias” she attempted. Smiles broke out all around.

  Self-consciously she made her way into the bathroom. She found a light switch to her left and flicked it on.

  A beautiful claw-foot tub sat to her right, and there was a small partition for the toilet and sink basin. She found the dark purple towels in a cupboard above the toilet, a bottle of what seemed to be shampoo, and a thick, fragrant bar of Maja soap wrapped in paper embossed with a picture of a flamenco dancer.

  Breathing in the delicious perfume, she carried everything to the tub and turned on the double spigots. The tub was clean; she guessed that the man who had greeted José Luís so oddly kept the safe house clean in the event that it was needed. She was grateful for t
hat. She was doubly grateful for Philippe’s kindness in suggesting she take a bath.

  Kindness? She smirked at herself. Face it, Nicki. There’s something there and you both feel it

  There was a rubber stopper in the bottom of the tub; she plugged the drain and let the water run. Her head bobbed as she waited, and she thought, I’ll have to he careful. I could fall asleep in here.

  From the other room, a single male voice sang out in a rising, falling chant. The others echoed it. Then the first voice sang again, and the others responded.

  They’re chanting.

  From deep inside her, ancient blood called to the rhythm, the mournful, gentle melodies. Part of her knew these words, these notes; it was in her blood, in her spirit, and in her soul.

  The Cahors lived in a Catholic country. Does my spirit stretch back that far, like Holly’s does?

  Pondering, she peeled off her dirty clothes and stepped cautiously into the bath. Easing her sore body down into the warm water, she moaned under her breath as aching muscles uncoiled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had actually relaxed.

  She lay back and closed her eyes, listening to the chanting. Her mind began to drift. . . . She thought of happier days, when Mom was alive, the two of them having just discovered magic. They had started blessing the family every evening, and Nicole had hoped that her mom would stop sleeping with Michael; that she, Nicole, could light a spark between her parents and they would love each other.

  And that I could make Eli good. . . .

  I loved him.

  Tears slid down her face as she finally let go and allowed herself to feel some of her grief. Her mother was dead.