Witch & Curse

by Nancy Holder

  At that moment, Isabeau inhaled sharply, and stared up at him, her eyes wide with wonder. She feels it, too. Has someone enchanted us both?

  He glanced at his father, who was invoking the God to protect their union. His gaze slid from Laurent to his new mother-in-law, Catherine. She returned his scrutiny, and the merest hint of a smile whispered across her lips.

  It was she, he thought fiercely. How dare she? Before this night is over, I will strangle her in her bed. Then a strange, new emotion washed over him. That would cause Isabeau great grief. I cannot harm her lady mother . . .

  He took a step backward. I have been poisoned. I am being manipulated.

  He said aloud, “This marriage—”

  His father stopped chanting and stared at him. A hush descended over the assemblage.

  He read in his father’s eyes a warning: I have toiled for years to achieve this match. Do not thwart me, lad. Don’t forget, you have a younger brother. Should you prove to be a disappointment, he can easily take your place.

  Jean took a breath, and then he barely nodded, to show his father that he understood, and said, “This marriage joins two great houses. I am overcome with joy that my bride and I stand here tonight.”

  A cheer rose up—perhaps not a very enthusiastic one, for the Cahors were anxious about being surrounded by Deveraux, and many of the Deveraux opposed the match.

  Isabeau said nothing, but her expression softened. A tear welled in her eye and ran down her cheek. Jean reached beneath her veil and caught the tear with his forefinger, then raised it to his mouth and slipped his fingertip between his lips. It was an intimate, loving gesture that was not lost on the onlookers, who murmured with approval and surprise. Jean was not known for his tenderness in matters relating to women.

  The ceremony ended at last, and with trumpets and torches Jean led his bride into the great hall of Castle Deveraux for the bridal feast.

  Echoing through the rooms of stone, a faint cry of agony caught Isabeau’s attention. She looked up at her groom.

  “Sacrifices,” Jean told her. “We’ll go a little later, to preside over the last few.”

  She dipped her head in assent. She still had not spoken, he noticed.

  “Did they take your voice, so that you could not refuse this match?” he asked her, an edge in his tone.

  The look she flashed at him was one of pure lust and adoration. “There is nothing I will refuse you, Jean de Deveraux.”

  His loins filled with fire and he smiled at her. She smiled back, and they led the way to the tables.

  And they went to the dungeons later, and what he made her see, what they did together to living, breathing human beings . . . to sacrifices for the sake of their marriage, and their legacy . . .

  Jer’s eyes snapped open. His chest was heaving and he heard his own voice muttering, “No, no, no, no.”

  Eddie and Kialish were both crouched beside him, Eddie with his hand on Jer’s shoulder. He had been shaking him hard.

  Jer was going to be sick. The atrocities he’d witnessed in his vision, the tortures . . . he was revolted. He shoved Eddie aside and ducked out of the lodge as fast as he could, staggered a few feet, and fell to his hands and knees. Bile churned in his stomach and he coughed it up, tears welling in his eyes as the acid seared his throat.

  Then emptied physically but still not emotionally, he rose to his feet and lurched toward his car.

  Eddie and Kialish caught up and walked abreast of him. Eddie said, “What’s up, Jer?”

  “I’m going home.”

  “What did you see?” Kialish wanted to know. “What happened, man?”

  Jer shook his head. “Nothing I want to talk about.”

  His friends traded glances. “We can go to my dad,” Kialish suggested. His father was a shaman. “I think you need him.”

  “Thanks.” Jer didn’t break his stride, but he flashed Kialish a grim smile of appreciation. “What I need is a new family.”

  He had told Eddie and Kialish a few things about his father and his brother, and over the months he figured they must have connected a few of the dots he’d left out. Not all of them, but enough to at least be sympathetic. Kari knew less about his background, because he didn’t trust her as much. She was power hungry and, truth be told, she was beginning to wear on him. Hey, great times together and all that, but she was pushy and nosy. He had to watch his back all the time around her.

  As his friends looked on, he pulled his jeans over his loincloth and found his gray UW Seattle T-shirt among the clutter of books in the backseat. His hands were shaking. He leaned against the car to catch his breath, fished his keys out of his pocket, yanked open the driver’s door, and slid in.

  “I’m not sure you should drive,” Kialish ventured. “You’re too shook up.”

  “I’m fine.” He jabbed the keys into the ignition. The engine roared and Kialish stepped back so Jer could shut the door.

  With bare feet he peeled out, brakes squealing.

  What’s happening? he thought angrily. My dad misses Lammas and I go on a vision quest to Hell.

  He wanted some answers. Dad had damn well better have some. . . .

  Michael was furious. He kept it from his mistress as he spoke to her on the phone, but his wrath was such that he could have strangled her with pleasure, and dropped her dead body onto the floor.

  “Of course Holly should live in San Francisco, if that’s what she wants.” His tone couldn’t have been more casual. He picked up a pair of chopsticks from an empty bag of some take-out Chinese one of the boys had brought home and broke them in two.

  On the other end of the line, Marie-Claire said, “She didn’t know we existed. My brother Danny never told her about us.”

  Maybe Daniel Cathers knew Holly was the keeper of the family power, he thought, even angrier. And now the little bitch wants to stay in California with a family friend.

  That’s too bad . . . for the friend.

  Just then, Jeraud slammed into the house. Michael gave him an inquiring look and raised a finger to indicate that Jer should give him a moment. His son crossed his arms and glared at him.

  “So I’m going to stay here,” Marie-Claire continued. “For the services. It’s in the local papers,” she added distractedly. “It’s big news around here.”

  “And you’re staying with this Barbara Davis. . . .” He trailed off, watching Jeraud’s temper mounting.

  “Chin,” she finished. “Barbara Davis-Chin. It’s a lovely house. There’s a guest room. Holly’s staying in it and I’m going to sleep in the living room. Nobody wants to be in Tina’s room. That’s the daughter.”

  “Give me your address,” he ordered, then caught himself and said sweetly, “so I can check in on you. And to send flowers,” he added in a moment of inspiration.

  “Oh, Michael, that’s so kind.” She was obviously very touched. “I wish you could be here.”

  “Me, too.” He paused. “I need to go.”

  “Someone’s there,” she guessed. “Will you call me later? At bedtime?” she added huskily.

  “Yes. Adieu.” She loved it when he spoke French to her.

  “Adieu.” The entire situation was high drama for her, and she was enjoying her part in it. Life as a Seattle housewife, no matter how wealthy, could be dull at times.

  Michael hung up. “What’s up?” he said to Jer.

  “You said you didn’t know very much about our family history. I think you know more than you’ve told me.”

  Michael assessed him. “I’m surprised at you. You’ve never seemed very interested in the old tree before. Did you find something interesting on the Net?”

  “We were torturers,” Jer said. “We killed hundreds of people.” He stayed where he was, balling and unballing his fists.

  We killed thousands, my boy, Michael thought, but aloud he said, “I doubt that very much. Who told you that? That girl you hang out with at the university? Sissy Spaced-out?” He made fun of Kari Hardwicke at every opportunity. I
f he could have managed it without raising suspicion, she’d be dead already.

  “Is it true?” Jer demanded. He narrowed his eyes. “What else have you kept from me?”

  Michael turned away, making a sudden decision. Holly Cathers is coming here. This boy might be the one who has what it takes, not me or Eli. I could put her in thrall to him, make her the Lady to his Lord.

  And then I’ll make sure he’s always in thrall to me.

  “I’m going to San Francisco,” he informed his son. “I’ll be gone for a few days.”

  “Don’t you walk away from me! I want to know!” Jer shouted at his back. “Who are we? What are we?”

  Michael chuckled to himself. “You know what we are, Jeraud. You’ve always known. We’re warlocks, and we’re allied with the Dark. We’re what is commonly referred to as evil.”

  “You liar!” Jer roared.

  A bolt of crackling green energy whipped past Michael and hit the wall, scorching the trailing ivy wallpaper. Michael was impressed that his son had harnessed such strong magical power. But he was also a lousy shot.

  Slowly he pivoted around, gazing coolly at his child. He channeled force into his own facial features, his bones, even the cells of his hair. The transformation gave him added strength and an air of authority.

  “Do not forget,” he said in a low voice, “that I am your father.”

  Jer pursed his lips and swung out of the kitchen. Michael stayed where he was, listening to Jer’s footfalls on the stairs, then down the hallway, and then into his room. His bedroom door slammed so hard, the kitchen windows rattled.

  Michael walked calmly to the pantry and opened it. Its walls were brick, its shelves unfinished oak. On the right side of the third row of shelves, he pulled out a false brick that was nothing but a piece of facing. In the hollow space behind it, he pulled out a carved jade box.

  In the box lay the preserved eye of an Ottoman Turk, a souvenir from the Crusades. The Deveraux House had sent many second and third sons in an effort to win even greater glory.

  Michael spoke ancient Arabic over the eye, then held it up and stared into its shriveled brown iris. In its tissue, he saw a clear reflection of his son’s movements upstairs in his room.

  Jer was pacing and muttering. He stopped, lay down on his bed, punched the pillow, and sighed.

  Michael watched him for about a minute longer. He can be molded. I can use him to get exactly what I want: ultimate control of the Supreme Coven. Why didn’t I see it before? Why did I think it had to be me? Or even my firstborn, Eli?

  With a happy sigh, he put the eye back into the box, the box into the hollow, replaced the false brick, and crossed to the phone. He punched in the home office number of his travel agent, who had once been his mistress. He had broken it off with her “for her sake.” She was only one of many whom he had dumped, who thought he had done it for the noble reason of not messing up her life.

  “Hey, Pat, my love,” he said easily, “yes, it’s me. Listen, I need a ticket ASAP to San Francisco. Open-end return, okay?”

  Upstairs in his bedroom, Jer touched his forehead. A sudden, brutal headache squeezed his temples. Breathing deeply, he intoned a spell to ward away pain. Nothing happened, and the pain got worse.

  When in doubt, take Tylenol, he thought wearily, rolling over. And why do I even bother trying to talk to my father?

  He raised up on his elbows. Then he froze.

  At the foot of the bed, magical green energy swirled in an oval shape about six feet high. It was about three feet across, and as it hovered in the air, a darker shape appeared in the center. Veins of deep ivy green crackled from it, and layers and shards of glowing forms tumbled around it in a circular motion, like the pieces of glass in a shifting kaleidoscope.

  The shaper grew, and Jer could make out a head, shoulders, and limbs. It was a human figure.

  The oval bobbled and began to close, and the figure cocked its head as if startled, observing the shrinking perimeter, then looked straight at Jer. The features were unclear. He felt, rather than saw, its gaze.

  What Jer did next, he knew was not of his own choosing. He crawled on his hands and knees to the foot of his bed and held out his left hand. His mouth opened, and he spoke sounds he had never heard before.

  From the oval, scarlet and green energy crackled, then darted forward to connect with his fingers.

  Violently, Jer was thrown back against the bed, slamming his already aching head against the head-board. It felt as if his skull were being cracked open with a hammer, and for a moment he sprawled in a heap, unable to move. Finally, with a grunt, he sat back up, dizzy and sick to his stomach from the pain.

  Once again the beams shot forward. The jolt was enough to knock him off the bed, and it spread over him like a pulsating blanket, pinning him to the floor. It shimmered over him from head to foot, sizzling, sending tendrils of aching, jittery sensation throughout his body. Shutting his eyes tightly, he braced himself for more pain, but this time none came. Something new was happening; it was as if something were trying to find a way inside him, poking and prodding the surface of his skin for an opening . . . or a weakness.

  He spoke words of magic, very strong, very powerful, to kill the entity or the charge or whatever it was, or at least to render it inert. Though the sensation lessened, it didn’t completely dissipate. He tried another spell. Nothing happened.

  Hell with this, he thought, and opened his eyes.

  At the foot of his bed, deep inside the oval, the human shape writhed in agony. The figure was completely engulfed in flames. It fell to its knees, arms flailing, trying to put itself out. Jer watched in horror as it rolled and jerked, its head arched backward, its mouth open in a scream Jer couldn’t hear.

  The oval constricted, telescoping in, and as Jer reached toward it, the energy slid off his body like a net and returned to the pinpoint that was all that was left of the shape. He scrambled toward it again, but in the next instant, it winked out of existence. Every trace of it vanished.

  The distinctive sound of crackling flames ricocheted through his mind, and then a man’s distant voice, faint but filled with hatred:

  Don’t forget. She did this to me. Don’t trust the witch. Show her no mercy or this will happen to you.

  Then a loud wailing filled Jer’s head; the resulting pain made him cry out and jerk into a fetal position, his arms protectively cradling his throbbing skull.

  He had no idea how long he lay that way, but when he came to, it was morning, his head no longer hurt, and his father had left for San Francisco.

  Part Two: Samhain

  Lifting the Veil

  SAMHAIN

  “When Death stalks the earth, witches come to play. For of all creatures they have

  nothing to fear, yea, only they.”

  “And I saw in that century a great darkness spreading across the land. It was a darkness born of strife and vengeance given birth centuries before. I saw the power wielded by two families and the destruction that they brought. It was as though all the demons of Hell had been brought forth to walk the earth and all manner of wickedness had been set loose so that good men trembled in their homes.”

  —Gregory the Wise, 1152

  FOUR

  SNOW MOON

  And now our dark purpose nearly done

  We thank thee, Lord of Day, God of Sun

  Deveraux answer your dread behest

  We kill well on the Eve, on the Morrow, we feast

  Our Lady guide us on this night

  As we strive to finish well right

  Cahorses’ Purpose dark and strong

  Help us House and Circle prolong

  San Francisco, California

  It had been Barbara’s decision to hold two funeral services, one for her daughter on Wednesday, and one for Holly’s parents the following day. As an E.R. doc, Barbara had knowledge of potent tranquilizers, and that was the only thing that got Holly through the ordeal of Tina’s burial. Today would be a stronger test.
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  Now they stood on fresh grass beside her parents’ graves at Our Lady of Sorrows Memorial Park, Barbara in the same black long-sleeved wool dress she had worn to her daughter’s funeral, Holly in the same black stretch skirt, boots, and black shirt. Most of the attendees wore black or navy. Elise’s and Daniel’s coworkers stood somberly behind the minister and the rows of chairs; their closer friends looked miserable on the gray folding chairs, eyes swollen with tears. There was her mom’s yoga coach; there, her father’s golf friends. Holly’s classmates and her pack of stable brats had shown, but all she could do at the church service and now at the grave sites was register their presence with unblinking eyes.

  Two matching mahogany caskets were poised above the opened rectangles, flowers heaped on them in equal amounts.

  My parents’ bodies are in there, she thought, trying to block out the images that formed. Most vivid was the nightmarish face of her father as she’d awakened in the hospital. She shuddered, feeling sick to her stomach, wishing the service was over and never wanting it to end. Wanting to be suspended here in time, so she wouldn’t have to go on without them. Her mom. Her dad. This is the part that’s the nightmare. I’ll wake up from this soon. I swear I will.

  A thin-faced, wrinkled, old minister Holly didn’t know going on about ashes and dust until she wanted to scream at him to shut up. Tears streamed down her face and she choked back a sob as Barbara gave her right hand a tight squeeze.

  Her newfound aunt stood on her left, and a man who had arrived late at the service and had been introduced to her simply as Michael stood beside Marie-Claire with his arm around her waist. Holly assumed he was her aunt’s husband, but no one had said so. He was very good-looking. His clothes were expensive. His loafers were like the ones her father had splurged on the last time they’d gone shopping in the city—over five hundred dollars a pair.

  How can I even notice such things when I’m burying my parents?