Legacy & Spellbound (34 page)

“Is everything all right?” he asked suddenly enough to startle her.

She stared into his eyes, searching. Was it possible he had heard her? His eyes were clear and innocent, though, with no mysteries or knowledge hidden within them. No, it was a coincidence. She forced herself to smile. “As long as we are together, it is.”

He gave her shoulders a squeeze, and she felt warmth spreading through her. It was good to be in love.

Mother Coven: Santa Cruz

Luna, the High Priestess of the Mother Coven, was in trouble and she knew it. One by one, every woman who had survived the massacre had questioned her
or had thought about it.
Anne-Louise was the most vocal, but everyone was wondering what had gone wrong and beginning to doubt their High Priestess's intentions.

Truth is, they're right to doubt,
she thought.
Holly Cathers and her coven are an inconvenience, to say the least. Then, House Cahors has never played by anyone's rules but their own. Still, maybe I've judged them too harshly. Amanda
seems like a departure from the rest of her families. She's gentle and eager to please the Goddess and others.
Luna sighed. For Amanda's sake, if nothing else, she should act. Besides, the covenates were restless, and that was never a good thing.

That was why she was sitting alone in her chamber surrounded by purple candles and burning mugwort and wormwood. She had to find Holly Cathers and she was going to need magic to do it.

She sat quietly, a bowl of water before her ringed with even more of the purple candles. She hummed softly to herself as she pricked the tip of her forefinger with a needle and squeezed three drops of blood into the bowl.

“One for Holly, one for me, and one for the Goddess,” she murmured as she did so.

She stared at the crimson spot in the water for a moment and then closed her eyes. She breathed deeply.

“Goddess, I come to you seeking that which was lost, that it might be found, a Cahors witch is somewhere around, grant me sight that I may see, where on earth this witch could be.”

In her mind's eye, a face appeared and she gasped in surprise.
It was not Holly's.

Within the fire we dance and laugh
We sacrifice on the God's behalf
Light the pyres and ring the bell
Summon all the fiends from hell1

Surround us now in cloak of night
Rejecting the Horned God's light
Death we are and death we bring
Striking from the sacred ring

Veronica Cathers Covey: Los Angeles, September 21, 1905, 11:00 P.M.

“Must you really leave in the morning?” Ginny now asked, as she hugged her sister in the lobby of the Coronado Hotel. It was a large, spacious place, and there was an actual cobbled walkway in front of the entrance. Ginny and Veronica had spent their childhoods in much lower-rent neighborhoods in rainy Seattle, where even boardwalks were a rarity... making mud a commonplace.

Veronica tried to laugh lightly, but it came out
more as a sob. “If I could stay, you know I would, but I must get home to Charles and the baby.”

“But Seattle is so far away!”

Veronica's tears fell on her sister's dark curls. It seemed ages since they had last seen each other, and who knew how long it would be before they were again reunited? “I will see you again soon, I promise.”

Ginny nodded and finally pulled away from her. Tearfully, she turned and walked inside. She threw a last look over her shoulder and waved before stepping into the carriage.

Veronica continued to wave until the carriage was out of sight. Then she turned wearily toward the front desk.
At least I will be soon home with Charles and our son, Joshua.
She smiled, buoyed by the thought. She headed for the staircase.

“Ma'am?”

She turned and saw the night manager walking toward her, a telegram in his hand. Puzzled, she took it from him. He nodded briefly and then returned to his duties. Clutching the telegram, she hurried upstairs.

Inside her room, she sat down on the settee across from the lavatory. Her eyes dropped down to the name of the sender: Amy. Her sister-in-law.

With shaking hands and a sinking feeling, she tore open the telegram and began to read it in a whisper.

DEAR VERONICA. STOP. COME HOME AT ONCE. STOP. CHARLES DROWNED THIS MORNING. STOP. JOSHUA IS SAFE WITH ME. STOP. ALL MY PRAYERS. STOP. AMY.”

A cry ripped from the very center of her heart. She got to her feet and flung the telegram across the room. It fluttered like a hapless paper boat and sank to the wooden floor. “No,” she whispered.

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a man's voice. “Madame, are you okay in there?”

Numbly, she opened the door. She stared at him, her mouth working. For a few seconds, no sound would come out. “No,” she said. Then she sank to the floor.

Something burned Veronica's eyes and nose; she bolted upright to discover herself reclining on the settee with a small crowd around her. A mustached man with a shock of white hair was tapping her wrist. A stout woman beside him moved a vial of smelling salts from beneath Veronica's nose, once she realized Veronica had been revived.

“My husband,” she managed.

The woman nodded kindly. “I read your telegram. Hope you don't mind none.”

How can he be dead? There was so much left to do, to experience. We were going to have another child… .

“Drink this. It's laudanum. It'll help you sleep,” the man with the mustache ordered as he held out a glass of milky liquid. More gently, he added, “I'm a doctor. And permit me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Kelly.”

Mrs. Kelly's eyes shone with tears. “You dear girl,” she said. “You dear, sweet girl.” She gestured to the glass. “Drink up. Get some rest. I'll stay with you until you sleep.”

More in shock than anything else, Veronica gulped down the draft. Then she lay numbly against the pillow and closed her eyes.

She woke much later, to discover that the Kellys had left. Groggily, she sat up, then swung her legs over the bed. She found her slippers, slid her feet into them, and rose.

The room tilted and spun, and she grabbed hold of the bedpost. She put on her peignoir, then silently glided to the door.

Something whispered to her to open the door. She frowned, knowing that to walk the halls of a hotel in the dead of night wearing nothing but her sleeping clothes was not something she should do; and yet the little whispers persisted, urging her to act.

Before she realized it, her hand turned the knob. In a daze, she began to walk down the empty hall. It was as if someone walked beside her, guiding her, whispering directions to her in her ear.

After a time, she realized she had found her way somehow to the fourth floor. A chill swept through her, and she turned around, shivering. The door at the end of the hall seemed to shimmer briefly in her sight. She wanted to turn, to run down the hall, but she didn't. Instead, she found herself drifting toward the door, pulled as though against her will. At last she stood before it and she could feel someone,
something,
on the other side.

Of its own accord, her hand lifted. She tried to stop it, but she had lost control. Fear washed over her, leaving her stomach churning and her knees trembling.

Touch the door,
a voice inside her mind commanded.

“No,” she whispered. But the choice was not hers.

Her fingers brushed against the wood, and the contact sent electricity shooting through her arm. She pressed her palm against the door and felt, for a moment, the thing that was on the other side. There was rage, and hatred and … curiosity.

Suddenly it was as if her will was hers again, and she snatched her hand away with a cry. She turned and,
picking up her skirts, fled down the hall. As she reached the top of the stairs she heard the door open; the sound lent speed to her feet.

She raced blindly down the stairs until she reached the first floor of the Coronado. She glanced toward the double entrance doors.
No.
It was the middle of the night, and she would be exposed outside.

She needed somewhere to hide. She was terrified, quite overcome; she wondered briefly if it was the laudanum, but she doubted that. Her Cathers intuition had come on full throttle, and every fiber of her being shouted that she was in real danger.

A door caught her eye and she raced to it, yanked it open, and found another set of stairs. Skirts held high, she bounded down the stairs, her heart pounding and lungs burning.

She shot into the basement. The light from a single lantern tried to push back the darkness and failed woefully. She stopped, took a few deep breaths, and looked around.
There must be somewhere to hide.

But why do you want to do that?
It was the soft, insistent voice again, the one that had spoken to her outside the door upstairs … only this time so loud, she could hear its timbre. It was a woman's voice.

“Who are you?” she whispered. “Are you angel or demon?”

I am Isabeau.

“Isabeau?” She tasted the name on her tongue. It seemed very familiar to her, although she could never remember hearing it before. “But … who are you?”

Before the voice could answer, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Footsteps followed, echoing loud as thunder.

There was a pile of rags on the ground; maybe she could hide in them. Before she had taken a step toward them, though, a voice boomed, “Stop!”

She turned, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting. She was pinned to the spot by a pair of smoldering eyes. The firelight danced across his hair, and his features twisted demonically.

And yet, there was something strangely compelling about this dark, hard-featured man… .

“Well, well, looks like I found myself a Cahors witch,” he said. “One of two remaining, if I'm not mistaken. And their father, of course.”

“Y-you are mistaken, sir,” she stammered. “My name is Veronica Cathers, and I am certainly no witch. And... and neither is my... fath... anyone I know.”

For a moment a shadow of doubt crossed his face. Then he shook his head. “Your name doesn't mean a thing to me. I am concerned with who you are, not what you call yourself. And, my dear lady, you are a witch.”

“I am no witch,” she cried again, moving away from him.
I'm a widow,
her mind wailed.
A widow. Oh my God, my family is dead! My true love …

My true love …

Jean …

The darkly imposing man smiled and lifted his right hand. A ball of fire danced in it, and he lobbed it at her slowly. She opened her mouth to scream, but instead, words strange to her ear came out, and the fireball fizzled, dissolving in midair.

She was so astonished that her legs gave way; she grabbed on to a chair for purchase, panting wildly. A cold sweat burst across her forehead, and she was terribly hot, though she wore only her nightdress and peignoir.

The man chuckled cruelly. “You see? A witch.”

Her mind raced. She backed away further. “Go away. Please.”

He smiled. “Not for all the tea, sweet lady. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marc Deveraux, of the House Deveraux, a warlock, and your sworn enemy.”

“My … enemy?” she said slowly.

Did he have something to do with the drowning? Did he kill … did he … murder …

Non,
he is Jean, my love, my enemy, my husband,
the voice whispered.
Jean comes to me through him. You will
stay. You will allow him to touch you, to kiss you, to make love to you.

And then … you will kill him.

For me.

Marc Deveraux cocked his head to the side, and his eyes took on a faraway look as though, he, too, were hearing something. “Isabeau,” he whispered.

“Jean,” she answered.

His face softened. He reached out a hand. “My love.
Mon amour, ma femme, tu est ici, avec moi …
”

“
Oui,
I am here …
je suis ici, mon homme, mon seigneur …
”

She moved toward him as if in a dream. Her hands raised toward him.

“No,” she whispered. And then again, more fiercely, “No!”

The shout punctuated the air, and Marc's face snapped back into sharp focus. “Then die!” he shouted.

He raised his hand and sent a fireball her way, full-speed this time. She cried out and ducked to the side. The fire landed in the pile of rags that she had thought to hide in. Within moments they were blazing out of control.

From somewhere deep inside of her, Veronica recalled a half-memory, shadowed in the fog of her
early childhood. It was of a beautiful woman with flowing hair muttering in a foreign tongue. Veronica opened her mouth, and the same words came pouring out of her, the memory growing stronger. A fireball appeared in the air before her, and she willed it forward.

Marc leaped to the side, but the fireball caught the sleeve of his jacket and the fire began to burn. Raging, he shouted in French as he peeled the jacket off his body.