by Nancy Holder
Nightmare, Holly thought fuzzily. Last year. Nightmare. . . .
The figure raised forth her right hand; a leather glove was wrapped around her hand, and on it perched a large gray bird. She hefted the bird through the water, and it moved its wings through the rush torrent, toward Holly.
“We aren’t witches!” her father shouted in her memory.
And her mother: “I know what I saw! I know what I saw in Holly’s room!”
Go, take her from here; they will find her and kill her . . . je vous en prie . . . je vous en prie, Daniel de Cahors. . . .
“Je vous en prie,” the man in the deer’s head whispered heartbreakingly.
It was Barley Moon, the time of harvest, and the forest was warm and giving, like a woman. The man was staked to a copse of chestnut trees, his chest streaked with his own blood.
The Circle was drawn, the tallow candles set for lighting.
“I am so sorry for him, Maman,” Isabeau whispered to her mother. The lady of the manor was dressed in raven silks, silver threads chasing scarlet throughout, as were the others in the Circle—there were thirteen this night, including her newly widowed mother’s new husband, who was her mother’s dead husband’s brother, named Robert, and the sacrifice, the quaking man in the dead deer’s head, who knew that he would soon die.
The Circle’s beautiful familiar, the hawk Pandion, jingled her bells as she observed from her perch, which had been fashioned from bones of the de Cahorses’ bitterest enemy . . . the Deveraux. She was eager for the kill; she would snatch the man’s soul as it escaped his body, and daintily nibble at its edges until others caught hold of it for their own purposes.
“It is a better death,” Catherine de Cahors insisted, smiling down on her child. She petted Isabeau’s hair with one hand. In the other hand she held the bloody dagger. It was she who had carved the sigils into the man’s chest. Her husband, Robert, had felt compelled to restrain her, reminding her that torture was not a part of tonight’s rite. It was to be a good, clean execution. “His wagging tongue would have sent him to the stake eventually. He would have burned, a horrible way to die. This way . . .”
They were interrupted by a figure wearing the silver and black livery of Cahors; he raced to the edge of the Circle and dropped to his knees directly before the masked and cloaked Robert. Robert’s height must have given him away, Isabeau thought.
“The Deveraux . . . the fire,” the servant gasped. “They have managed it.”
Pandion threw back her head and shrieked in lamentation. The entire Circle looked at one another in shock from behind their animal masks. Several of them sank to their knees in despair.
Isabeau was chilled, within and without. The Deveraux had been searching for the secret of the Black Fire for centuries. Now that they had it… what would become of the Cahors? Of anyone who stood in the way of the Deveraux?
Isabeau’s mother covered her heart with her arms and cried, “Alors, Notre Dame! Protect us this night, our Lady Goddess!”
“This is a dark night,” said one of the others. “A night rife with evil. The lowest, when it was to have been a joyous Lammas, this man’s ripe death adding to the Harvest bounty. . . .”
“We are undone,” a cloaked woman keened. “We are doomed.”
“Damn you for your cowardice,” Robert murmured in a low, dangerous voice. “We are not.”
He tore off his mask, grabbed the dagger from his wife, and walked calmly to the sacrifice. Without a moment’s hesitation he yanked the man’s head back by the hair and cut his throat. Blood spurted, covering those nearby while others darted forward to receive the blessing. Pandion swooped down from her perch, soaring into the gushing heat, the bells on her ankles clattering with eagerness.
Isabeau’s mother urged her toward the man’s body. “Take the blessing,” she told her daughter. “There is wild work ahead, and you must be prepared to do your part.”
Isabeau stumbled forward, shutting her eyes, glancing away. Her mother took her chin and firmly turned her face toward the stream of steaming, crimson liquid.
“Non, non,” she protested as the blood ran into her mouth. She felt defiled, disgusted.
The gushing blood seemed to fill her vision. . . .
Holly woke up. As far as she could tell, she lay on the riverbank. The sound of rushing water filled her pounding head; she was shaking violently from head to toe and her teeth were chattering. She tried to move, but couldn’t tell if she succeeded. She was completely numb.
“Mmm . . . ,” she managed, struggling to call for her mother.
All she heard, all she knew, was the rushing of the river. And then . . . the flapping of a bird’s wings. They sounded enormous, and in her confusion she thought it was diving for her, ready to swoop her up like a tiny, waterlogged mouse.
Her lids flickered up at the sky; a bird did hover against the moon, a startling silhouette.
Then she lost consciousness again. Her coldness faded, replaced by soothing warmth. . . .
The blood is so warm, she thought, drifting. See how it steams in the night air. . . .
Again, the sound of rushing water. Again the deathly chill.
The screech of a bird of prey . . .
Then once more Holly saw the hot, steaming blood—and something new: a vile, acrid odor that reeked of charnel houses and dungeon terrors. Something very evil, very wrong, very hungry crept toward her, unfurling slowly, like fingers of mist seeking her out, sneaking over branch and rock to find her wrist, encircle it, enclose it.
Someone—or something—whispered low and deep and seductively, “I claim thee, Isabeau Cahors, by night and Barley Moon. Thou art mine.”
And from the darkness above the circle a massive falcon dove straight for Pandion, its talons and beak flashing and savage. . . .
“No!” Holly cried into the darkness.
A bird’s wings flapped, then were still.
She was shivering with cold; and she was alive.
A brilliant yellow light struck her full force in the face. Holly whimpered as the light moved, bobbing up and down, then lowered as the figure holding it squatted and peered at her.
It was a heavyset woman dressed like a forest ranger. She said, “It’s okay, honey, we’re here now.” Over her shoulder, she yelled, “Found a survivor!”
A ragged cheer rose up, and Holly burst into frightened, desperate tears.
Seattle, Washington, Lammas
Kari Hardwicke had wrapped herself in a simple, cream-colored robe of lightweight gauze that was totally see-through and that clung everywhere. In her slashed blond hair she had entwined a few wildflowers, and she had bronzed her cheeks and shoulders. Her feet were bare and she had dabbed patchouli oil in all the strategic places.
Spellcasters loved patchouli oil.
Now she curled herself around Jer Deveraux as he brooded silently before her fireplace. He had burst through her door with the storm, fierce and enraged, but he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. He had accepted the glass of cab she offered him and drawn up her leather chair before her fireplace. He sipped, and he fell silent, his dark eyes practically igniting the logs in the fireplace.
Hell hath no fury like Jeraud Deveraux when he’s in a temper.
That made her want him all the more. There was something about Jer she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t simply his air of command, as if he could make one do his slightest bidding merely by raising one eyebrow. Nor was it his sharp wit, or his drive; the pull he had on almost everyone who knew him; the way he fascinated people, both men and women, who would fall to discussing him once he had left a room.
It was all that combined with his astonishing looks. His brown-black eyes were set deep into his face beneath dark brown eyebrows. His features were sharply defined, his cheekbones high above hollows shaded by the soft light in the room. Unlike his father and his brother, he was clean shaven; his jaw was sharp and angular, and his lips looked soft. He worked out, and it showed in his broad shoulders, covered for th
e moment by a black sweater. Like his family members, he wore black nearly all the time, adding to his allure of danger and sensuality.
But it’s even more that that, Kari thought now. He’s . . . how does the old song go?
A magic man.
Heavy rain rattled the dormer window of her funky student apartment; the storm matched his mood, but she was determined to shake him out of it. It was Lammastide, the witches’ harvest night, and she knew he would leave in a while to go perform some kind of ritual with Eli, his brother, and Michael, his father. They were “observant,” as he liked to phrase it… and she wanted him to take her with him tonight. She wanted to know what they did in secret. Their rites, their spells . . . all of it.
The Deveraux men are warlocks, she thought.
But use that word in front of Jer, and he would deny it.
In the early days of their relationship—a year ago, now, how it had flown!—he had been eager to bring her into the fold. Back then, she was his teaching assistant, and he, a newbie undergrad; after the first time they’d gone to bed together, he had told her he would share his “mysteries” with her. He had hinted about an ancient family Book of Spells.
She was thrilled. She was getting her PhD in folklore, a path she had chosen so that she could investigate magic and shamanism with the full resources of the university behind her. The University of Washington at Seattle treated Native American belief systems with the utmost respect; thus, her field of endeavor was encouraged, and never challenged.
But it wasn’t simply Northwestern magic that interested her. She was fascinated by European magic . . . especially black magic. And though, like being a bona fide warlock he denied that his family practiced the Dark Art, she was fairly certain they spent more time in the shadows than they did in the diffuse light of Wicca. Yet she maintained the fiction that he practiced one of the Wicca traditions; it was what he had told her.
“I’ve dressed like the Barley Maid,” she said now, moving between him and the fireplace and stretching out her arms to him. He looked startled and—she hated to admit it—irritated by her interruption of his reverie.
Jer, you loved me once, she thought anxiously. You were thrilled that a glamorous “older woman” graduate student wanted you, a mere freshman. What did I do wrong?
I want you to come back to me. Not just treading water with me, but back into the deluge, the flood that was all that passion you poured into me. We made such waves . . . we drowned in such amazing ecstasy. . . .
“I’ve read that if we make love tonight, whatever spells we cast will be extra powerful.” She smiled lustily.
“That’s true,” he said, giving her that much. His smile was gentle, tinged with both sadness and great wisdom. “And you’ve cast quite a spell on me, Kari. You’re beautiful.”
She let herself believe he was sincere, and he rose from his chair, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her into her bedroom.
TWO
WINE MOON
Wine and wisdom go hand in hand
But not while our foes stand
Lord we beg this humble boon
Let us drink of their blood soon
Let us drink of you, Lady bright
Filling our eyes with second sight
Bring us wisdom and let us know
How to bring great kings to woe
Seattle, Washington, August 1 (Lammastide)
Thunder seized the rafters of the Anderson family’s Victorian mansion in the Upper Queen Anne area of Seattle and shook them until the century-old timbers bowed and nearly cracked. Skeletal fingers of cold rain rapped the windows, impatiently demanding entrance.
Death wanted in very badly, and Michael Deveraux, the reigning warlock of the Northwest, was doing all he could to open the door.
Or rather, to burn that door down, he thought. By the Horned One, I will burn that sucker down. I threw the runes. I read the auguries. They all said the same thing: that tonight’s the night I, Michael Robert Deveraux, will conjure the Black Fire.
And I’ll destroy the House of Cathers with it, once and for all.
Reeling with anticipation, he shut his eyes and made fists against his chest, fingernails gouging his palms. His heart thudded hard and fast like a battle drum; his hot Deveraux blood ran molten through his veins.
It can mean only one thing: It’s time for the Deveraux to take over. After centuries of sucking it up and pretending we’ve accepted defeat, we’re going to steal the ball and make that touchdown. We’re going all the way. Because baby, we got game.
Oh, yeah—the boys and I got game.
This morning at the Dark Hour—3 A.M.—he had opened his Book of Shadows to the Rites of Lammas Night to prepare for Ritual. Lammas was hallowed; it was the Eve of Harvest. In the old, pagan days, the wheat and grapes had been blessed, the day sanctified to the Goddess. But in the world Michael worshiped—the mystical Greenwood, home of the Horned One—it was a night for harvesting power . . . and the lives and souls of enemies.
Michael’s sons were due home at eleven to participate in the Rites. Now it was nine o’clock, two full hours ahead of schedule. Not wanting to tip them off to the fact that there would be no simple Lammastide for them this year and less than eager to have them present for what he was doing in its stead, he had forbidden them to help with the preparations. Eli had been fine with that—he had no problem letting his father and brother carry the burden of magic use, as long as he continued to reap the benefits in the form of money, women, and cars—but Jeraud had thrown a full-blown tantrum. He had argued violently, slammed things around, glowered and sworn and made a lot of very foolish threats that Michael had ordered him take back for fear of suffering the consequences. Then, mustering all his authority, Michael had told him to get out, backing up the dismissal with the threat of more harmful magics than Jer could even imagine—which had infuriated Jer all the more.
Jer knows something’s up. I should have given him more credit, made a better attempt to hide my work. I’ve been keeping lots of secrets. Well, once tonight is done, he’ll understand that I had to keep my focus. I don’t need any distractions. If only he were more like Eli—just plain greedy and simpleminded. No wonder Sasha tried to take him away with her when she left me.
Michael opened his eyes, smiling grimly at the droplets of blood that had beaded on his palms.
I don’t need to share all my power with my ambitious boys. Eli would kill me without a second’s hesitation if he thought he could get away with it. Well, the old man’s got a lot of years left in him. Centuries, I hope. So watch your back, kids. One step in my direction and I’ll annihilate you.
“Are you watching, Duc Laurent?” he said aloud. “You’re finally going to get what you’ve wanted. I’m going to burn the witch tonight. So forgive and forget, all right? Tonight’s the night for Black Fire, and I’ll need your help. Your power.”
There was no answer. The phantom spirit of Laurent de Deveraux, the noble warlord of the family and dead these nearly seven centuries, had not communicated in any way with Michael for nearly six moons. Michael knew the Duke was livid with him for binding the witch to him “in spirit and heart”—in other words, for beginning an affair with Marie-Claire Cathers-Anderson. During the ancient fertility festival of Imbolc, Michael had put her in thrall, the Lady to the Lord as in the old days of witch and warlock together. His hope had been to harness the power that was said to erupt when Cahors and Deveraux were joined.
It was a good idea, he thought. And it was fun, even if the union didn’t result in a magical upgrade, as I’d hoped. So that part of the story must have been simple legend, as Laurent insisted it was.
He shrugged, wondering if the Duke was watching him. Michael had learned the hard way that his spectral kinsman had his own methods of surveillance. Too bad she has to die, but at least it’ll make Laurent happy. He’s been pissed off ever since I started up with her.
Ten feet away, on a red velvet sofa footed with birds’ claws, Marie-Clair
e lay unconscious. She was sprawled on her back with one arm over her head, her profile silhouetted against the red velvet. She was wearing a black satin bathrobe and bloodred ruby earrings. Her toenail polish matched her earrings, but her mouth was red from kisses, not lipstick. At forty-two, she was still incredibly beautiful, with heavy lashes and full, exquisite lips. What will it be like to watch her flesh blister and crack, her lips disintegrate, her eyes boil away?
Enticing Marie-Claire had been easy, and he liked to think he hadn’t really needed his magic to accomplish it. Michael Deveraux knew that he was incredibly good-looking. Like his children’s, his appearance was exotic, very French, with deep-set, soulful eyes that women loved to gaze into, and a chiseled face with a square, cleft chin. That fact that his nose was a little too narrow made him intriguing—one of his conquests had said it made him look “deliciously cruel.” He liked that. A lot of women were drawn to cruelty, mistaking it for strength.
With his loose, black curls, his trim beard, and his lean body, honed to edgy bone and sinew from hours of working out, he knew he had been a temptation to Marie-Claire ever since they had met at their children’s preschool. Though her witchly powers had lain dormant then, he had felt the call of blood to blood. He knew at once that there was more to this lady than a pretty face, a French name, and a certain selfish drive that he found utterly charming.
After that first meeting Michael had rushed home and descended into the Room of Spells, the heavily fortified hexagonal chamber he’d had built into the heart of his two-story Art Deco house. He’d put on his sorcerer’s robes of red and green and summoned his patron with blood and smoke. First had come the sulfurous odor that always made his eyes water, and then the charnel stench of the grave. Then the cold frost of Charon’s ferry, parting the veil, had descended upon the chamber. Michael’s breath had joined with the mist that rose from nothing and diffused through the frigid room. The dipping of the oars became his own heartbeat.
From the darkness the phantom had taken shape—the ghostly skull and skeleton at first all that was visible, followed by decayed flesh and dust that hung loosely on bone and leathery muscle as the revenant stepped from an invisible boat. According to his faded portrait, the Duke in life had been even more handsome than Michael. He claimed that once their House was again ascendant he would “carry myself as a full man,” as he had said in medieval French—a language Michael had dutifully learned in order to communicate with him. Neither of Michael’s sons spoke it . . . because neither of them knew about Laurent.
