Witch & Curse Page 4

  “Tu est rien,” the Duke’s voice echoed from the fleshless jaws. You are nothing.

  Then, as Michael watched in helpless fury, the Hounds disappeared, the wind died, and the Duke and shimmering figure both vanished.

  It was over. His spell would not work this night.

  Angrily, he took off his robe and put it back in his satchel.

  I’ll kill her anyway, he thought savagely. I’ll become the dutiful descendant, atone for my disobedience, and work whatever magic Laurent will show me. I’ll find the secret of the Black Fire if it takes the rest of my life.

  I’ll strangle her in her sleep. Back in our day, witches who confessed were garroted before they were burned. She’s ignorant of her powers, making her somewhat innocent, so that should balance the karmic wheel. She has such a slender neck; it will be easy.

  In the sudden silence, the phone rang like the shriek of a bird of prey. Marie-Claire’s portable phone had somehow wound up on the couch, though Michael hadn’t noticed it there before.

  Rousing at once, she sat up and fumbled for it.

  “Hello?” Marie-Claire said fuzzily. She glanced at Michael and mouthed, Did I fall asleep?

  He nodded, holding his wounded hand, balled into a fist, behind himself. Apparently he had recovered his poise sufficiently, because she returned her attention to the caller’s voice; first she blinked, and then she frowned. She said, “What? What?” in a high, shrill voice. Her mouth worked silently for a few seconds—then her face crumpled, and she burst into tears. With a shaking hand she pressed the phone against her chest.

  “My brother’s dead,” she wailed. “His wife, too. Jesus, Michael. . . .”

  “Oh, my God,” Michael responded, and in her distress, she couldn’t tell that he was faking it. He held out his other hand. She left the couch and sank against him, shuddering, her ear pressed to the phone again.

  “Holly. Of course.” She nodded as she spoke. “Of course she can. I’ll catch a plane.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Yes, yes, sure.” She ran a hand through her hair, and he put his arm around her to keep her steady.

  “Let me call you back,” she said. “Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

  She disconnected, then pressed herself against him, seeking reassurance. “Daniel,” she moaned. “Oh, Daniel . . .”

  He gentled her; he was good with animals and women. He caressed her back and her wet, cold cheeks and kissed her furrowed brow. He let her sob for what seemed like forever, impatient with her but not showing it. He wondered if his sons were home, wondering where he was. This night was not turning out the way he had expected it to, not at all.

  So, should I still kill her? he asked himself, gazing bloodlessly down at the bowed head, the riotous mass of shining curls.

  Then she raised her head and said, “They want me to come get my niece. She’s an orphan now. She has no one else.”

  “Your niece,” Michael said slowly.

  She nodded. “My brother’s daughter. Holly.”

  He showed no outward sign of the shock he felt at this news. He kept his voice low and his expression a model of compassionate detachment.

  “I didn’t realize there were any other women in your family.”

  At this, she heaved another sob. “She’s not a woman. She’s the same age as my twins.”

  So there’s another Cathers—Cahors—female. Maybe she’s the one who inherited the family’s magical power. And if I ally her with our House, the Black Fire might burn bright for Michael Deveraux after all. . . .

  “Then she’ll be coming to live with you,” he said slowly.

  She looked at him in abject misery and said, “They want me to go get her. She has no one else.”

  “Then you should go. She’s family.”

  Her sigh was ragged and determined and resigned, all at once. “The funeral’s in two days. I’ll leave in the morning.” She raised her tear-streaked face up to look into his eyes. Her lips were moist and her body was pressed tightly against his.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered. “I couldn’t have handled being alone tonight.”

  “Ma chere,” he said, brushing the damp strands away from her forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

  And in that moment, he really was glad that he hadn’t murdered his mistress.

  Yet.

  THREE

  BLOOD MOON

  On kings and saints we gladly feed

  And wash their flesh down with mead

  We bathe in blood and whittle bone

  And dream of all the fear we’ve sown

  By the light of the blessed moon

  We hunt again and very soon

  We’ll catch within our snare

  Our greatest enemy’s one heir

  Canyon Rock Hospital, Arizona

  Holly drifted along on a gentle sea halfway between waking and dreaming. Though her eyes were closed, she sensed the brightness of the sun through her eyelids, smiled at the pleasant warmth on her face. Soon her mother would remind her to put on sunscreen, and Holly would, to please her. Secretly, she liked tans and when she was at the stables, she never bothered. She told herself her cowboy hat was enough, but of course it wasn’t.

  A shadow moved between her and the sun’s nourishing heat; she wrinkled her brow slightly but then relaxed as a large, familiar hand slipped around her own and gave her a squeeze. She tried to say, “Hi, Daddy,” but it was too much effort in her deliciously languid state. So she smiled again to indicate that he was welcome, and drifted along, her hand in his, loving her father, remembering all the years of looking up to him and adoring him. Her mom had always said Holly was a daddy’s girl, but she hadn’t minded. Elise Cathers’s own childhood had been a nightmare, and she had told Holly one of the most important gifts she could give her daughter was a good, healthy love and respect for her own father.

  “Not being able to love him, not wanting him anywhere near you,” her mom had said, “that’s the worst thing for a young girl. I’m glad you love your dad so much.” That’s what she would tell Holly, and then she’d smile a bit wistfully. “It’s as that writer says—having a child is another chance to get it right.”

  It amused Holly that even though her mom repeated those words over and over, Elise couldn’t remember the name of the writer who had written them, or where she’d read them. But Holly got the message, and she was immensely proud of her mom; whatever had happened to her as a little girl, it hadn’t held her back. She was a skilled, compassionate doctor and a fabulous mother. The only thing she didn’t seem to be very good at was being a wife.

  Or is all the fighting Daddy’s fault?

  There would be other times to puzzle over that; for now, she and her father savored the peace and quiet together. It was a gift, this moment. So many of the parents of Holly’s friends didn’t get that it was about just being together, not overscheduled days and nights saturated with “activities” and expensive presents to make up for absences and missed dance recitals. Tina’s mom got it, though. She’s a great mom, too.

  Her father’s grip began to slacken, and she heard his voice inside her head: Time to wake up, punky.

  Then the panic started, because she knew what the dream was. The word survivor echoed in her muzzy brain and she knew she was stalling; when she woke up, they were going to tell her about death. Someone had died... no, wait, I don’t know that. We could all be survivors. Of course we all survived. Because this is my life and in my life, things like dying don’t happen. . . .

  Her father’s voice whispered more insistently, Wake up, and then she realized that the words were sounds outside her head. That meant he was alive, really there beside her, really trying to rouse her from her dreams.

  Her heart beat a little faster and she tried hard to pull her eyelids open. She was incredibly tired. Her head swam as if she were falling; then her left leg jerked, the way body parts sometimes did when one was falling asleep or waking up. From the heat on her face, she assumed she
would be staring into the sun, so she tried to turn her head, but she simply couldn’t manage it.

  “Holly. Wake up.”

  And then she did, because that was definitely Dad’s voice; she not only turned her head but opened her eyes, a smile on her face and—

  A scream ripped out of her, tearing up and out from her stomach to the top of her head. She screamed again, and again; because her father was leaning over her, only she had no idea how she knew it was her father, because the face of the figure had been smashed flat, and the flesh was swollen and black. There were no eyes, just compressed eyelids; the nose had been crushed by a head-on collision, the cartilage and bone smeared across the cheekbones. The chin had been cracked in two, and the hinges of the jaw dangled like the wings of a roasted chicken.

  A voice echoed from the destroyed mouth, but she was screaming so loudly, she couldn’t hear what it was saying. She couldn’t hear if it was her father. She shot away from it, arms and legs flailing, scrabbling backward in terror, shrieking. The face moved with her, then glanced in another direction.

  Something jabbed into her arm with a painful prick, and the ruined face melted in slow motion. As her shrieks slid into moans and then into whimpers, she was forced to watch the bloated, purplish skin slide down from her father’s forehead and cheeks, rivuleting down the hollows of his cheeks, taking the rapids of his chin. Then the bones stretched like pliant candle wax, elongating hideously; and then, for one instant, an oval of black stared at her. The shadow mask stared at her, and then it vanished, all at once.

  In its place emerged the face of a woman, very lovely and glamorously made up, almost middle-aged, with Dad’s dark, flashing eyes and Dad’s generous mouth and Dad’s dark, wild hair. Holly blinked, too woozy to speak, and the woman raised a hand toward her.

  “I’m your aunt,” the face said with brilliant red lips, and then Holly went back to sleep.

  On a beautiful, gentle sea, she held hands with her father, and—

  And Holly Cathers’s life was about death after all.

  She was the only survivor of the rafting trip. Mom, Dad, Tina, and even their guide, Ryan—all were dead.

  She was in a hospital near the Grand Canyon, where she had been treated for exposure, and they had sedated her after her freak-out. But I saw him. I saw my father, all . . . all injured. The daughter of an E.R. physician, Holly was not squeamish. But that was Daddy. My daddy. I want my daddy . . .

  Holly began to wail. She shut her eyes and keened like a dying animal, rocking herself. Acid filled her mouth; her stomach burned; she leaned forward and heaved, clutching a wafer-thin hospital blanket as if to protect her hospital gown. Heavy, deep, rolling sobs exploded out of her, breaking her down. All she could do was weep.

  Someone spoke with great authority, announcing, “That’s okay, Holly. You go right ahead, honey. Get it out.”

  She didn’t know how long she cried until the same someone said to another person in the room, “Jesus. Let’s give her something.”

  There was another jab, and as she began to descend into drugged sleep, she heard a flapping like the wings of a hunting bird. Swooping, diving, careening down the tunnel of blackness with her . . .

  . . . and then she realized it was her own heart beating hummingbird fast, then slowing . . . slowing . . .

  . . . and a gauntleted hand made a fist, and the bird perched upon it.

  Holly woke up again, worn out and sick and numb. The woman who said she was her aunt tried to stop crying. Her makeup was smeared all over her face. She wiped her nose with a tissue from the box on the nightstand and said, “. . . your guardian, in your father’s will.”

  Holly couldn’t remember her name. Daddy never even told me he had a sister.

  “Um, and you’ll like the school.” The woman swallowed hard. Her eyes darted left and right, as if she were looking for somewhere else to be. She had on a lot of jewelry, and her earrings caught the light as she moved. “My girls like the school.”

  Holly squinted her swollen eyes, trying to follow. “School?”

  “You’re going to be a senior, right?” the woman asked.

  Years ago, when Janna Perry’s brother had died, Janna had been like the star of a movie. Everyone had circled around eleven-year-old Janna at school, treated her carefully, whispered in furtive circles about the poor girl, the poor thing, the one left behind. Janna had been pretty much of a creep, and now she was a saint. She even acted like a saint. She was good. She was kind. She was very, very sad.

  Sad kids get their way.

  Kids who had been mean to her brought her little presents. Kids she had been mean to took her home to their houses for dinner and sleepovers. She got excused from tons of homework assignments and even though she missed a lot of school, she made the honor roll for the first time in her life. Holly, only nine at the time, had been a little jealous. All the drama, all the specialness, Janna like some mythic tragic heroine dragging around with dark circles under her eyes and going to the nurse whenever she felt like it. Janna had entered the annals of coolness, and for the rest of her life, she would have an unbeatable card to play whenever she wanted attention.

  “So, um, we can pack your things and . . .” Her aunt looked momentarily stunned. “Where do you live?”

  Holly stared back at her. “What?”

  Before her aunt could answer, there was a rap on her hospital room door. Before Holly could say “come in,” it opened.

  Barbara Davis-Chin, in her corduroy overalls and Birkenstocks, hippie Barbara with no makeup and her black hair in a bun, stood framed in the doorway for an instant. Then she saw Holly and rushed to her side. Holly’s aunt moved awkwardly out of her way and Barbara’s arms enfolded Holly, pressing her cheek against Holly’s own. She smelled of sweat and perfume, and tears slid down Holly’s cheeks.

  “Holly, baby,” she murmured. “Oh, Holly. Oh.” She rocked Holly as Holly grabbed on to her, clinging as hard as she could, shaking and crying.

  “Tina,” Holly murmured back, holding on hard, grateful to her core that Barbara was here. She was solid and real and maybe it had all been a mistake, and now Barbara would tell her that and everything would be the way it was supposed to be.

  I don’t care if Mom and Dad fight for the rest of their lives, she thought fiercely.

  “It’s a mistake, right?” she blurted. “It’s not them.”

  “I saw them, sweetheart,” Barbara said firmly, caressing Holly’s cheek. “I identified them.”

  Holly was amazed at the fresh wash of grief and despair that overtook her. She had had no idea that people could hurt this badly. She thought again of Janna and was deeply ashamed of herself.

  Maybe God is paying me back for being such a bitch, she thought.

  After Holly quieted, Barbara turned to the stranger and said, “I’m Barbara Davis-Chin. Holly’s best friend’s mother.” She was amazingly composed.

  “I’m Holly’s aunt, Marie-Claire,” the other woman said. Her smile was watery weak and sad. “I guess Danny never mentioned me. Apparently he had listed me as next of kin.”

  Barbara made a moue of apology, then turned her attention to Holly. “Sweetie,” she said, “your mom asked me to look after you if anything ever happened to her. Did you know that?”

  Holly wasn’t surprised, but still she said, “No.”

  Barbara nodded. She reached forward and trailed her fingertips over Holly’s corkscrew curls. “I’ve watched you grow up,” she said softly.

  Holly glanced at her newly discovered aunt. “My dad wanted me to live with her.”

  “Yes, about that . . . ,” Barbara began.

  The woman stepped forward and cut in, “Holly, if you have someone you want to stay with, that’s all right.” She smiled at them both. “I certainly don’t want Holly to come to Seattle against her will.”

  For a moment, Holly was stung. It was obvious her aunt didn’t want her. Then her more adult self kicked in; who would want a third high school student in the ho
use? Marie-Claire’s family had their own lives, and she was a total stranger. Besides, she wanted to stay in San Francisco for her senior year.

  “Of course, if you want to come to Seattle,” Aunt Marie-Claire added, “you’re more than welcome.” She laid a reassuring hand on Holly’s forearm. “I’d love to get to know Danny’s daughter.” Her eyes softened. “I missed him, all those years.”

  “We can talk about all this later,” Barbara suggested. “Holly needs to think things over.”

  “No,” Holly said. She colored at the panicked tone in her voice. “I’d like to stay with you, Barbara. If it’s really okay.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, it’s more than okay.” Barbara put her arms around her. “It’s what I’d like, too. That house is going to be awfully empty without . . . without Tina.”

  “Okay, then.” Marie-Claire pressed her hands together. She said to Barbara, “I’d like to go back to . . . home with you both and help with the . . . arrangements.”

  The funerals, Holly translated, feeling a little sick again. Oh, my God, I’m an orphan. My parents are dead. I have no brothers or sisters.

  “Holly?” Marie-Claire said.

  Both women looked at her. Holly shook her head. “I’m tired.” She touched her forehead and sighed. “Just really tired.”

  “She needs her rest,” a nurse announced as she bustled in. “She’s had enough visiting for now.”

  Barbara moved away from Holly’s bed. She said to Holly’s aunt, “Let’s get some coffee, all right?”

  In unison, they smiled at Holly, then picked up their purses and walked out of the room. Barbara was very much the counterculture San Franciscan, Marie-Claire the upscale fashion trender.

  She must be rich, Holly thought. Then for the first time, she realized, I’m rich, now, too.

  The nurse said, “You’re all wound up. I’m going to ask the doctor to prescribe something for you to sleep.”