Witch & Curse (39 page)

It's James
, Jer realized.
The heir to the Moore Coven and son of Sir William, who is the leader of the Supreme Coven. Our family has secretly allied with James
.

That had been their original stance. But after Jer had been burned, Michael had pledged Jer to the service of Sir William in return for Jer's life. Upon sealing the bargain, Sir William had transformed into a hideous demon.
Is he a devil? Did my father make a deal with Satan himself so that I could survive?

Suddenly the pain lessened, and Jer gasped with relief.

“It hurts, the Black Fire, doesn't it?” James murmured. “That's why we want the secret. The Supreme Coven wants this weapon so we can finally wipe out those idiot witches in the Mother Coven.”

Jer was confused. Surely his father had already shared the secret. No way would Sir William let him hold a trump card like that.

“I can practically read your mind,” James drawled. “Something has gone wrong, Jer. Your father can't conjure the Black Fire anymore. We have no idea why he continues to fail.”

Jer was taken aback.

“I think it's because he needs you and Eli both, that there must be three Deveraux present to make the fire burn. With you out of commission and away from him, it isn't working. My father thinks I'm wrong. He thinks that bitch Holly is blocking it. So my father sent him home to kill her.

“What about you, Jer? Would you kill her if I ordered you to? You're with me, or you're against me. “You're going to get well, and you, your father, and your brother, are going to conjure the Black Fire for me.”

Eli must be alive
, Jer thought, and he was both dismayed and relieved at the thought.
I still care about him
.
Blood is thicker than water after all
...
warlock blood, that is . . .

“Sit up,” James commanded him.

Magic thrummed through Jer Deveraux, binding up seared flesh; reopening veins that had melted shut; clearing the scars from his lungs and his heart. His breathing came more freely; he sucked in both air and magic, and the glow pulsated and spread throughout his body, expelling with his exhalations. He was dizzy, almost high, and then the pain was almost gone.
Almost, but not quite
.

Then Jer found himself seated in a wheelchair on a cliff, facing out to sea. Magical energy swirled and undulated around him, motes of green phosphorescence danced over his skin.

His skin, which was black and shriveled and repulsive.

He stared in horror at his hands, dangling loosely in his lap. They were charred stumps, bones poking through the lumps of cindered flesh. A witch at the stake would have looked no worse.

I'm a monster, like Sir William. Maybe he was burned by the Black Fire too. Maybe my father conjured it before, years ago, and Sir William bears the scars
.

Tears rolled down his face. His body shook with grief and rage and deep, abject humiliation.

I can never let Holly see me like this. She'd pull away,
probably throw up. I couldn't take that
.

“You begin to understand what the Cahors are capable of,” said Jean de Deveraux's voice inside Jer's head.
“Eh, bien
, that's what I looked like too, after my wife betrayed me. And why I both love and loathe my Isabeau. And why you must kill the reigning Cahors witch, who is known as Holly Cathers. My Isabeau can possess her and she has betrayed us both now. So they must die, the one with the other.”

“No,” Jer croaked. He had no idea how long it had been since he had spoken a word. “Holly did not betray me.”

“But she did,” Jean insisted.
“La femme
Holly, she knew that bound together, Deveraux and Cahors—
pardon, on dit
‘Cathers'—could stay untouched within the flame of the Black Fire that your family conjured last Beltane. By holding on to each other, you both could have stood inside the flames for an entire moon, had you so desired.

“But she moved away from you in the fire, did she not?
Mon ami
, she abandoned you to the flames, as Isabeau swore to do to me, knowing full well that you would suffer like this.”

“Her cousins dragged her away!” Jer rasped. “She had no choice.”

“How pathetic, that you lie so poorly to yourself,”
Jean said contemptuously. “She's the strongest witch in the Cahors line since Catherine, Isabeau's mother. If she had really wanted to save you, she could have.”

“No,” Jer whispered, but he had no rebuttal; deep in his sizzling, superheated Deveraux soul, he believed what Jean was saying.

Then he had another vision: He was standing on the shoreline in Seattle, with Holly; the waves flung themselves against their ankles, and then their calves, and their knees. But his arms were around Holly, and she was kissing him deeply, her entire body pressed against his. She was hungry for him, and so eager. . . .

. . . and the waves crashed around them, and crashed; Holly held him tightly and kept her mouth over his. The chill waters yanked at them and tugged hard.

They tumbled out to sea, caught up in the cresting waves and the chasms between them. Jer fought, trying to keep his head above the rollercoaster of water, but Holly clung to him and pulled him down, down; her mouth was over his and he couldn't draw a breath. She had effectively cut off all his oxygen. In his panic and frustration, he tried to break free, but he couldn't. She was drowning him.

“She will be the death of you, if you don't kill her first,” Jean whispered. “Isabeau is bound to take my
life, through you if she must. She cannot rest until I am obliterated.”

And then James spoke, as if he were part of this vision, as if he lived both outside and inside Jer's mind:

“Remember who your friends are, Deveraux,” James added.

Jean continued. “And never, ever forget your enemies. In the lives of witch and warlock, blood feuds go on for centuries.
Mademoiselle
Holly may want to love you, may even be able to convince herself that she does; but she is the living embodiment of all that is Cahors, and she is your mortal enemy.”

Holly and Amanda: Seattle, October

It was a very dark and stormy night, nearly Samhain, and Uncle Richard was drunk.

Holly and Amanda had just gotten home from Circle, both taking off their cloaks of invisibility to find him sitting in the living room in the dark, compulsively eating the miniature chocolate bars purchased for trick-or-treaters, straight out of the bag. He didn't even pretend anymore; he was drinking Scotch straight out of the bottle. In the early days after Aunt Marie-Claire's death, he had mixed drinks for himself, making them progressively stronger; then he had taken to drinking out of a shot glass. That was before he had
had proof that Marie-Claire had been having an affair with Michael Deveraux.

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.”