Witch & Curse Read online

  The signs were right. He would wipe the last descendant of the Cahors from the earth.

  He has called me.

  He has challenged me.

  Giselle was thrown. She had thought to have the element of surprise in her armory. She had also thought to have one more moon before she challenged Luc Deveraux to battle.

  But he had thrown down the gauntlet first.

  Drawn by his magics, Giselle and her two sister witches found themselves in Pudding Lane.

  He was there, waiting, and he was not alone. The two groups approached each other slowly, silently.

  They were met on the street as though on a battlefield. Luc and Giselle locked eyes, warriors about to do battle.

  Without warning Luc pulled a wicked dagger from beneath his cloak and threw it with deadly accuracy toward her head. She lifted a hand and the dagger stopped in midair. It slowly spun in a half-circle till it was facing its master. She sent it back with all the ferocity she could muster.

  It was the signal the others had been waiting for. The battle was fierce, the opponents equally matched. Dark forms spun and twirled by the light of the moon, dancing to their own macabre tune with steps only those attuned to dark magics could accomplish.

  Around Luc and Giselle the others slowly fell away. A warlock turned to melt into the night and a witch followed him. Another couple’s struggles carried them into a nearby street. At last the two of them were alone.

  Slowly they circled each other, searching for weaknesses. Both were tired, both were running out of strength.

  “I shall kill you as I killed your mother and grandmother before you.”

  “And I swear by the Goddess that this Cahors will avenge all whom you have slain. You shall not kill another of my kin.”

  She was exhausted and shaking, but Giselle could feel the rage rising in her, filling her and giving her strength. Her hands began to shake with the power that coursed through her. At last she let it out in a single shout.

  “Incendia!” Fireballs appeared in the air before her. She hurled them at the old man, one after another.

  Luc batted them out of the sky as if they were children’s playthings. Several landed at his feet, sputtering and dying in the dirt. Two plummeted into a nearby watering trough. One flew through a window into the home of the king’s baker. The last one he sent back to her.

  She threw her hand up and the ball of flame stopped in midair. It vibrated for a moment, humming as each applied more and more force to it. At last it exploded in a shower of sparks that rained down in the street between them.

  “I’ve seen better tricks from charlatans, my dear child,” he sneered.

  “Poor Luc. Did you think that you had ended the House of Cahors then? You didn’t take into account that she had a daughter.”

  “Ah, but I did,” he riposted. “And you will certainly not escape me now.”

  Before she could respond, flames erupted from the window of the baker’s house and shouts came from within. A woman screamed in anguish, and around the Coventry witches and the warlock, houses stirred to life with flickering candles as sleepy residents rushed to see the problem.

  Giselle and Luc stared at each other for a long minute. At last he gave a mocking bow before wrapping himself in a cloak of darkness and vanishing.

  As the first faces started peering out of doors, she realized that she had no time to be discreet. She picked up her skirts and ran down the street yelling, “Fire!”

  People burst from their homes and ran toward the blaze upon hearing her shout. Not a single one of them gave her a second glance.

  The fire moved like a living thing, terrible in its ferocity as it swallowed houses, shops, and churches alike without discretion. As if the destruction caused by the licking flames was not enough, houses were pulled down one after another, destroyed in an attempt to stop the fire’s path. The fire just laughed and leaped across the ruins of people’s homes and lives.

  Ministers preached farewell sermons as the flames approached their churches. Thousands of people fled, many with only the clothes upon their backs. Still the relentless flame pressed on. Many claimed that it was the hand of God, that His face had been set against London because of its great wickedness.

  For days the inferno blazed its way across London. When at last it seemed to die out at Temple Church, it was only gathering its strength for one last savage run. The smoke and debris clogged the air until it seemed the whole world was on fire.

  In the end, the fire killed many people and destroyed thousands of buildings. When the last flame had died, Giselle stood in Pudding Lane, surveying the damage. She could scarcely believe that she had been standing in the exact same spot a few nights before.

  Tears stung her eyes. So much carnage, so much death. Luc Deveraux had not come looking for her, and as she stood staring at the chaos they had caused, she vowed not to hunt for him. It was too dangerous.

  There was a ship sailing in the morning for the New World. She and her daughter and infant sons would be on it. In the Americas she would start over. A new life with a new name. The old one reeked of death.

  Gwen Cathers would be on that ship. Giselle Cahors had died in the fire.

  Luc Deveraux tried in vain to still the trembling of his limbs as he stood before the Supreme Coven. Any warlock would be a fool not to fear the judgment of the coven under the circumstances.

  The coven leader, Jonathan Moore, could not hide the smirk on his face as the coven delivered its proclamation.

  “Luc Deveraux, you have willfully disobeyed the law of the coven by making your battle with the House of Cahors a public one and thereby endangering us all.” It was significant that the coven did not care so much about the fire and the destruction it had caused except as it might lead to exposure.

  “Already several have been arrested in connection with the conflagration. Two of them are warlocks, members of this coven who foolishly followed you. The other is your manservant. This reckless disregard for the safety of the coven cannot be overlooked. House Deveraux shall hold no place in the leadership of this coven, and you must step down as the head of your house.”

  Luc was stunned. Death he expected and would have accepted, but he had not expected them to censure his entire family. He opened his mouth to protest. “My actions are mine alone. Do not punish House Deveraux for what I alone have done.”

  Moore was having none of it. “It is no secret that House Deveraux and House Cahors have feuded for many years. These public uses of magic will stop here and now. House Deveraux must regain the trust they once enjoyed in this coven.”

  So there is hope. Luc’s agile mind began to consider strategies. He asked humbly, “How might we prove our loyalty?”

  There were a few murmurs that were quickly silenced. Moore narrowed his eyes and thought for a few moments.

  “House Deveraux must cease all displays of public magic immediately and forever. Also, your coven may eventually redeem itself by bringing the secret of the Black Fire to the Supreme Coven.”

  Luc felt sick in the deepest recesses of his twisted soul. The secret of the Black Fire was lost. House Deveraux could never redeem itself without it.

  Philippe: On the Spanish border, November

  They were going to burn José Luís’s body.

  They had waited the requisite three days to see if he would rise. But the warlock was truly dead.

  Philippe wondered for a brief moment if it had been the death José Luís envisioned. He shook his head slowly, grief stricken.

  Mon vieux, he thought fondly, the battles we fought!

  Pray for me in Paradise that I will fight one to save Nicole, and win that one.

  Several feet away the others huddled. Armand sat on the ground, too injured to stand. Seated beside him, Pablo was shaking with exhaustion. Philippe felt his throat constrict as he gazed upon José Luís’s little brother, who looked so much like him. Alonzo crouched, eyes alert and probing the darkness, a cross in one hand and a crystal in the
other.

  He looked back down at the shell that had housed his friend and mentor. José Luís was dead, Nicole taken, and the battle against darkness had been well and truly joined.

  He passed his hand over José Luís’s face, blessing him. “We lost this time, old friend. But I swear to you, we shall prevail in the end.”

  He bowed his head briefly—half-praying, half-meditating. When he was finished he stood up slowly, his face set. He felt old and tired, but he knew what he had to do.

  The others stared at him, seeking guidance, direction. He would give it to them. “We are going to find Nicole and battle this evil before it spreads farther.”

  “Where do we go?” Alonzo asked.

  “Pablo?”

  Pablo raised his head and in a weak voice answered, “London. They’re taking her to London.”

  Philippe nodded. “Then that is where we shall go.”

  The others nodded agreement as he locked eyes with each of them in turn. Armand held his eyes the longest, and Philippe winced at the pain reflected there. Armand was more seriously injured than he had let on.

  Philippe knelt beside him and placed a hand on his chest. Slowly he exhaled as his heart sped up to match the rapid beating of Armand’s. Blinding pain surged through his body as his nervous system linked with Armand’s. His body was trying to help heal the other warlock.

  Suddenly the pain lessened dramatically, and Philippe opened his eyes to see that Alonzo was beside him, also working to heal Armand.

  At last the most dangerous injuries were healed and the three broke contact. Philippe rocked backward on his heels.

  From the torch stand, he plucked the flaming torch and touched the wood beneath José Luís’s body.

  “As soon as he is ashes, we leave.”

  Seattle, November

  The full moon was drowned by the heavy rains that fell from the sky in large, gulping cascades. Pioneer Square was awash; the twinkling funk of Hill Street was inundated; the bay was gorged and overflowing. It was not a fit night for anything, much less a battle. But it was the full moon, and witches were at their strongest.

  Warlocks, too, but there was nothing to be done about that. Holly had called the Circle together at Dan’s house. It was a beautiful, hand-built cabin in the woods, almost too small for the gathering that had assembled: Holly, Amanda, Tommy, Tante Cecile, Kari, Dan himself, and Uncle Richard.

  “We have to get him out of town,” Holly said to the group. “He won’t be safe here no matter the outcome. He hasn’t been safe here for months.” She was speaking of her uncle, who was seated beside Dan’s cast-iron stove in a state of shock. Back at the Anderson home, she and Amanda had revealed the truth about everything that was going on: the reality of Coventry, the fact that they were witches, that Michael Deveraux, who had been his wife’s lover, had also probably murdered her.

  “But. . . but she had a heart attack,” Richard had protested weakly. He looked so upset, Holly was afraid he himself might have a heart attack. So they performed for him, she and Amanda, conjuring the equivalent of witch parlor tricks. They conjured fire and wind, and they levitated objects in the room.

  Then Holly produced a scrying stone, and asked him to look into it. He saw Michael Deveraux in robes, bowing before what looked very much like a Black Magic altar covered with skulls and black candles and a large book bound in black leather. The stone also showed Silvana and Kialish bound with ropes, their faces wan and bloodless. They might have been dead, except that at one point Silvana’s eyes opened, and she stared in the direction of the stone’s field of view, as if she knew it was focused on her.

  Perhaps it was then that he began to believe. At any rate, he agreed to accompany them to Dan’s, sitting in stunned, exhausted silence. Holly and Amanda had agreed not to tell him about the imp they had pulled from him and drowned, nor the fact that they had tied him up in case he tried to kill the two of them. He didn’t remember any of it, and they thought it best to leave him ignorant of those recent dark days.

  At Holly’s request, Dan was going to purify each one of them for the coming rescue attempt. Each would go into his sweat lodge alone, hopefully to have a vision. Then he would speak to her of the shadow she had seen, and help her to use it to fortify herself in the coming battle.

  At her request, everyone had dressed in the colors of the ancient House of Cahors: silver and black. She and Amanda were dressed in black sweaters and black leather pants, with silver hoops in their ears and silver chain necklaces from which dangled amethysts and silver. Dried herbs had been braided into their hair. Tante Cecile had plaited their hair, Amanda’s into French braids and Holly’s into corn rows.

  Kari was swathed in a silver-and-black shawl over a black silk blouse and black jeans. Tante Cecile had on a form-fitting black dress embroidered with gold and silver leaves at the hem. Tommy wore black slacks and a T-shirt. He had borrowed a silver bracelet from Amanda, and he wore it awkwardly.

  We used to be so many more, Holly thought. Then she reminded herself, We defeated them on Beltane, on the 600th anniversary of the massacre of Deveraux Castle. We can defeat them again.

  “We have to assume Michael may launch an attack on us at any moment,” Holly reminded the others. “He has spies and scrying stones too. So I should go first. I’m point.”

  The others agreed.

  Holly took off her clothes in Dan’s bedroom, then wrapped herself in a large beach towel and followed him into the sweat lodge. Dressed in a T-shirt and buckskins, he stoked the alder smoke for her, sitting on his haunches while she inhaled the scent and began to sweat. The combination of smoke and heat made her dizzy; she allowed the sensations to take her over, and then the spirits showed her Pandion, the lady hawk, perched on her arm. Isabeau was riding Delicate, her mare, and the sun was shining gloriously down on her dark, unruly hair. She was galloping; her skirts of velvet were flying behind her, and Jean was shouting, “Slow down, wench! You’ll break your neck!”

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at her husband, laughing at him because he was having trouble keeping up with her. They were in the forests outside Deveraux Castle, and she was in love with him.

  Never mind politics and magic spells, she was young and beautiful, and he was likewise young and very handsome . . . and the day was filled with joy. Above Jean’s head the Deveraux falcon circled and soared in wild abandon, as exuberant as the witch and warlock. Then he screeched and dove into the thick underbrush. A battle ensued.

  “He’s caught something,” Isabeau said delightedly, pulling on the reins. Delicate slowed.

  “As have you,” Jean replied, trotting up beside her. “My heart.”

  And then she was Isabeau, cradled beneath Jean as her kinsmen burned his castle to the ground; as his own kinsman Laurent conjured the Black Fire and sent it sweeping through the bailey. She could hear Jean screaming; could hear herself begging him to forgive her.

  Through centuries they had searched for one another, locked in love and heat . . .

  ... and then a lady hawk flew above a misty island, dropping down, down, to land on the arm of a man who was so horribly, terribly scarred:

  Jer.

  Then overhead something wheeled, but it was not a bird; it was an Orca, a black-and-white whale, and it floated and swam. I’m underwater. I’m drowning.

  She was beneath the waters of the bay, and as she turned to the right, she saw Eddie in the grip of the hideous monster that had killed him; and to the left, the rest of her coven, caught in the grip of its minions, each struggling to make it to the surface, their eyes bulging, unable to move as the creatures held them down.

  They will drown.

  She was spinning as if someone had tossed her out of a window headfirst; the vertigo made her sick and she crouched forward to vomit . . .

  . . . and that was when she opened her eyes and came back to herself. She was back in the sweat lodge.

  To one side of the sweat lodge was a shower; Holly rinsed first in warm water,
and then in cool, allowing her mind to sharpen. Tommy went in next.

  While she was there, Holly dressed and emerged from Dan’s bedroom, facing her coven sisters, Kari and Amanda. Dan, who had finished helping Tommy get started, came out of the sweat lodge and regarded her soberly. It was he who spoke first.

  “You want to go alone.”

  She replied, “I don’t want to. I have to.”

  “No,” Tante Cecile insisted, rising. “He has my daughter. I’m going with you.”

  “We all go together, or we all die here and now.” Amanda spoke, pale and shaking with the force of her convictions. “He hurts us only when we are weakened by the absence of one or more. If we all stay together, we can all protect each other. It is our only chance of survival.”

  “I can’t protect you,” Holly protested, weakening under the onslaught.

  “Who made you queen of the universe?” Kari asked sharply. “No one’s asking you to protect us. If anything, I’m here to make sure you don’t screw up again and hurt anyone else I care for.”

  Her reference to Jer and the fire that had nearly killed him was like a slap in the face. Holly took it, though she felt a growing animosity toward Kari that she knew she would not always be able to quell.

  Anne-Louise watched from a safe distance as the members of the coven one by one entered the sweat lodge and took part in the ritual. Things were about to get very ugly. She could feel it with every fiber of her being. The only question was: What should she do to stop it?

  Part Three

  Waning

  “And when Lithia has passed and the year is waning there will be a great

  pall that settles upon the earth. Some will be given in marriage whom

  should not and others will wield a power unforeseen and uncontrolled.

  Then the earth will tremble and the skies will rain fire.”

  —Lammas the Elder

  ELEVEN

  BLESSING MOON

  Fill us now, Lord, with your might