by Nancy Holder
Where he met Mom, she thought wistfully.
And that was where his history stopped, at least in the collection of items Marie-Claire had preserved.
“Hey,” her aunt said from behind her.
Holly started, feeling a little guilty. She hadn’t asked for permission to come up here or to look through her aunt’s possessions.
“What’re you doing?” her aunt asked pleasantly. Then she cocked her head, studying the picture. “That was taken in his junior year. I was a freshman.” She sounded very sad, and then she began to weep. “It’s so hard to believe that he’s gone.” She added under her breath, “And that he didn’t say good-bye.”
“You . . . you hadn’t spoken to him in a . . . a while,” Holly managed.
Her aunt squatted on her haunches as she examined a sports trophy—Little League—and reverently placed it on the attic floor.
“No. I don’t know what happened. He had a huge fight with our mother. I don’t know what about. Then he left. He never contacted us again.” She caught her breath as she lifted up a picture. It was Holly’s father dressed all in black—jeans, sweater, jacket—and crossing his arm in front of a swimming pool. “I remember this day,” she murmured. “That’s the day he had the fight. The day he left. My big brother . . .”
She began to cry. She licked her lips and handed Holly the picture. “All this is yours now, honey.”
“No, I—” Holly protested, then closed her mouth. Her aunt was right. It should be hers.
A few moments passed. Then her aunt played with the rings on her hands and said, “Things . . . some things are complicated.” She reddened and wouldn’t look at Holly.
She’s talking about her affair, Holly thought with alarm. No way do I want to go there.
When Holly didn’t respond, Marie-Claire said, “Well, I was looking for you to tell you that the girls want to take you out tonight.”
It was Holly’s turn to take a breath. New kids. A new place. I’m going back to San Francisco for school . . . I’m not staying here.
“I’d rather just stay around the house,” Holly said. “I’m not up to . . . that.”
“They want to take you. They insist,” Marie-Claire said. She smiled fondly.
But at dinner, it was Amanda who insisted; Nicole had “some stuff ” to do that included her being allowed to take her mother’s car, and she promised her parents she would meet up with Holly and Amanda later.
Uncle Richard drove Amanda and Holly to The Half Caff, a funky-looking coffeehouse on a funky block of Hill Street. He kissed Amanda on the cheek and sweetly told Holly to have a good time, making sure the girls had lots of money.
He added softly, as if he hated saying it, “If you have any problem with your . . . ride home . . . call me.”
Our ride home is Nicole, Holly translated. She was a little taken aback by the look father and daughter shared, a gentle, reassuring smile of recognition that there had been problems before, and that there was a distinct possibility that there would be more tonight.
They’re the two outcasts, Holly thought, confirming Amanda’s earlier description of their family dynamics. Nicole gets away with her drama queen thing, and Marie-Claire... gets away with being unfaithful. And neither one of them cares if the others are hurt by it.
“Okay, show time,” Amanda said. “Put on your game face.”
Holly swallowed. “Do I look okay?”
They were dressed nearly identically in T’s and jeans, nothing too fancy, although Amanda had on a serious choker of garnets and a matching, very lacy bracelet. Holly wore her dad’s old silver ID bracelet and a silver thumb ring and silver hoops, also an anklet of little bells that Tina had given her one Christmas.
The coffeehouse was large by San Francisco standards, and dominated by an enormous second-floor balcony that jutted over the main floor. It was decorated with a frieze of Greek warriors with spears, reminding Holly of the figures on the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. All the tables were stone columns of varying dimensions topped with pieces of glass cut to fit. There were stone statues everywhere—busts of stern-lipped men, a sad-eyed Madonna, and tons of angels. Ivy trailed down the walls, which were painted to look like a vast countryside at twilight. The place was a cross between the ruins of a Greek villa and a Victorian graveyard.
“This is great,” Holly enthused.
Amanda looked very pleased and said, “Yay, table,” as she pointed to a two-seater near the frothing espresso machine. In her element, she led the way. Holly glanced around at all the unfamiliar faces. There were the usual Goths but a lot of other groups, too. The café was raucous, noise bouncing off all the hard surfaces—the floor was cement painted to look like black and white marble. The atmosphere was like a school gym at the end of a pep rally, not the arty, study-heavy quiet she was used to.
The two cousins settled into their chairs and Holly picked up a hand-lettered menu. She glanced at the coffee selections, then began reading the extensive descriptions of the chai offerings.
“Hey, hi, Mani-chan,” said a guy who was dragging a chair through the maze of tables and people. “About time you showed.”
He was of medium build, with warm skin tones, crescent-shaped eyes, and hair that had been bleached and re-dyed light blond. It looked good on him, as did his earring and a Chinese character tattoo on his forearm.
“Tommy,” Amanda said warmly. She dimpled at Holly. “This is my bestest best friend in the world, Tommy Nagai.” She gestured to Holly. “My cousin.”
“Hot,” he said appreciatively.
“Leave her alone,” Amanda ordered. “The rules of summer are almost over and this is her chance to score some social points. In a few weeks . . . back to our correct hierarchy and she’ll be with us by default.” To Holly, she explained, “I can’t understand it. He’s nerdy, with nerdy pursuits, and yet not totally scorned.”
“That is true,” he said, making a half-bow. “I am nerdy in the extreme, and yet tolerated by the ‘cool’ ”—he made air quotes—“people. I suspect it’s because I display the proper deference, and always remember my rank and station.”
“And serial number,” Amanda threw in, grinning. “So, if you want to snag someone more upscale,” she said to Holly, “don’t have too much to do with Tommy. Because ‘tolerated’ is the operant word.”
“What about you?” Tommy shot back, leaning back on his chair and playfully plucking Holly’s menu from her hands. “She’s living at your house, for God’s sake. Talk about social suicide. I’ll have a chai latte tonight.”
“She can’t help that,” Amanda said reasonably. “Besides, I have the Nicole advantage.” Her smile was laced with bitterness as she explained. “My mom won’t let Nicole go to any parties I’m not invited to. So”—she gave an airy wave—“my semipopularity is purchased, while Tommy comes by his more honestly.”
“Plus, we both like anime,” Tommy added.
Holly was intrigued by the difference in Amanda’s behavior, from her speech to the way she carried herself, and realized that her cousin was self-assured and relaxed around Tommy Nagai. He doesn’t threaten her because she doesn’t think of him as boyfriend material, she realized. And yet, ironically, they’d make a great couple.
“Anyway,” Tommy said affably. “Let your cousin judge for herself. She may love what she sees.” He flashed his white teeth at Holly and fluttered his lashes, but she could see that he liked Amanda beyond the “bestest best friend” role Amanda had given him. And Holly liked him at once for that.
“Um, I’m going back to San Francisco for my senior year,” Holly told him. “I’m just here to visit for a while.”
“Alas,” Tommy said, and he sounded truly sorry. “Let’s drown our sorrows in white chocolate-dipped biscotti.” He handed her back her menu. “And I would like you to pay for me, Mani-chan, because the summer job is over and—”
Amanda cut him off, muttering, “Oh, no.”
Holly followed Amanda’s line of vision
. From a table crammed with very stylish people, dressed-like-a-tart Nicole rose slowly like a rock star about to open her act. Neither Holly nor Amanda had realized she was in the house. Then two guys walked in through the front door, which was painted purple and black, like a bruise. Both of them were dressed all in black, with very dark hair, dark eyebrows, and sharply chiseled faces, but only one of them took Holly’s breath away.
Tommy sighed as if he were used to this routine. In an absurdly polite tone of voice, he asked Holly, “Want something to go with your latte and biscotti? Like a friggin’ barf bag?”
Holly flushed—he had caught her checking out another guy, which was rude when a guy was already in one’s presence—and replied, “How much are the barf bags? Our coffeehouse back home doesn’t carry them.”
Tommy clearly appreciated her retort and said, “Doesn’t matter. Only the best for out-of-towners. You’re the guest.”
“Just biscotti and the drinks,” Amanda suggested. Holly nodded.
“Okay. But be careful—she likes to pick off all the white chocolate and then hand the disgusting remains back to you,” Tommy said accusingly.
He frowned at Amanda, but her focus had also shifted elsewhere . . . back on the sexy guy, who was crossing the room and heading straight for their table.
He was looking directly at Holly, lion—no, sleek black jaguar—slinking toward his prey, every muscle tensed as if he were going to pounce on her.
“I’ll decamp. Go put in our order, because in this section of the jungle, the waitress will never show,” Tommy said lightly, but it was obvious he was not loving the moment.
“Hey,” the guy said. He was looking right at Holly.
Holly glanced at Amanda, who tipped her chin and started picking at her fingernails, murmuring, “Hi, Jer.” Her bravado and cheeriness had evaporated on the spot. She raised her head and cleared her throat. “Holly, this is Jeraud-Luc Deveraux. Holly’s my cousin.”
Holly looked back at Jer, taking in how dark his eyes were, then thinking, No, they’re green, with flecks of brown in them. They’re so . . . extraordinary. . . .
The room canted, as if all the tables and chairs and posters for local bands, and flyers for art exhibits tacked on bulletin boards, and the bubbling copper espresso machine and the baristas and the kids in black and the kids in letterman’s jackets should all go sliding down to the corner farthest away from her and this one guy. Holly knew that she had met him before; she didn’t know where, she didn’t know when, but Jer Deveraux was no stranger to her.
“Bonsoir, ma dame,” he said in French, the first word split into two deliberate words, turning the phrase into an elegant greeting, Good evening, my lady.
Holly unhesitatingly answered back, not understanding why the words came so easily and naturally, “Bonsoir, mon seigneur.”
“Yo, Jer.” Tommy stood to one side of the table. He snapped at Holly and Amanda, “They’re out of the biscotti. Maybe I can scare up some frog legs or snails, though, since it’s French night at The Caff and I totally forgot my dictionary.”
“Holly?” Amanda asked.
But Holly couldn’t pull herself out of her daze. She couldn’t stop staring at Jer.
Jeraud-Luc Deveraux.
That’s not his name, she thought. His name is . . .
It’s . . .
“Jean,” Isabeau sobbed, reaching her arms out to her lady mother. The two were dressed in witches’ regalia—heavy black gowns, hair entwined with veils and dead lilies and herbs. “Please, ma mère, spare him.”
The room was furnished with two stools; the stone altar of the Goddess, dragged to the turret room by two serfs, who were then slain; and a brazier for warmth and light. The fire in the brass brazier was hot and full; shadows flickered on the grimy stone and on the fur of Diable, the dog Isabeau had left behind when she went to Castle Deveraux. The cur now lolled contentedly at her side as she knelt in the filthy rushes and clasped her mother around the knees, sobbing against the rich fabric of her gown.
“S’il vous plaît, ma mère,” she begged. “If you ever loved me, please, please spare him.”
Her mother, the Queen Regnant of Le Circle des Cahors, sat stiff-lipped and cool, unmoved by her daughter’s entreaties. With each new display of tenderness toward their traditional enemy, her upper lip curled, until she herself looked like a demoness. As she gestured to the dead lamb on the altar, the little creature sacrificed so that she could read Isabeau’s fortunes in its entrails, she said harshly, “They will not spare you.”
They had secreted themselves in the highest turret room of Castle Cahors. The moon was fecund, her moisture sticky and warm and ripe for begetting spells and children and curses. Busy autumn air whistled through the round, stone enclosure, crackling with burnished leaves and the smell of apples. While Deveraux warlocks worshiped the God in dank dungeons, the witches of the Cahors sought out the tall places, where they could reach their arms toward the Blessed Lady Moon.
“They will spare me if I have a child.”
Catherine’s fingertips were bloody. She had already inscribed a pentagram on Isabeau’s forehead, and now she pressed her thumbprint into the center, where the Jews were said to believe the third eye, which belonged to God, gazed inwardly at one’s sins.
She said steadily, and with all the certainty of a highborn witch, and one who knows her Art, “You will not bear a Deveraux devil.”
“You must not force me to be barren any longer!” Isabeau shouted. She grabbed at her hair, tearing off her veil and throwing it to the floor. Then she crashed down to her elbows, covering her eyes with her hands, and wept. Her long, black hair streamed over her back and tumbled over the rushes.
“You knew our plan. You agreed to it.” Her mother’s voice was as cold as the stones beneath Isabeau’s empty womb.
“But now I . . .” love him, she almost said, but her mother would sooner strangle her only daughter than hear her declare her love for a Deveraux. “Now I see qualities,” she said feebly, and fell to silence at her mother’s expression of contempt and outrage.
“You have failed,” Catherine said. “You were sent to learn the secret of the Black Fire. But they will never share it with you,” her mother stated, tapping her bloody fingertips on the sleeve of Isabeau’s shift for emphasis.
“You must realize that we have been wordlessly bartering with them, a son for the secret. They have refused. Now they plan to rid Jean of you so that he may sow sons in another’s womb.” She sneered at her daughter. “There is no place for warmth or softness in our dealings, girl. You should have learned that at my knee.”
“It’s been a trap from the beginning,” Isabeau said bitterly. “You sent me there knowing full well everything that was going to happen. The moment Jean and I were bound together, wrist to wrist, was the moment I signed his death warrant.”
“You knew that.” Her mother sat up very tall, her back straight, her carriage regal. “You knew we planned to massacre them all if they didn’t share the secret. You will return to us in a marriageable state, without Deveraux issue to bind you to them.”
Isabeau sat up, and her mother smiled a little. “Ah, Maman, I did not mean to fall in love with him. . . . I am a Cahors, and always will be. But . . . but I . . . he is my husband now.” She wiped her eyes and rubbed her hands on her shift. Then she got to her feet and walked to the brazier, warming her cold, cold hands over its natural, yellow flames.
“He has bewitched you,” Catherine said, tapping her right forefinger against her left palm for emphasis. “Work your way back through the spell, child. He is a Deveraux, and he must die with all the rest.”
Before Isabeau could protest, she went on. “Think, girl. We cannot let the blood heir of our greatest enemy survive the massacre of his entire family! He will curse us all, and his spirit will not rest until every Cahors, everywhere, is dead. He will hunt down our descendants and their descendants, and it will be on your head, yes, and mine, if we falter now.”
&nbs
p; Her mother reached down and picked up Isabeau’s headpiece. She held it out to her daughter, who took it.
“Now, tell me about the entrances and exits on the castle grounds,” her mother instructed her. “Leave nothing out. Do not think to trick me in order to spare him.”
Isabeau wiped her nose. Her hands trembled. She said, “The—the north wall is less fortified than the others. Because it overlooks the sheerest drop.” She swayed.
“Sit.”
Catherine walked to the turret door and threw it open. Berenice, a lady in waiting from Toulouse, was caught listening at the door. She gasped and dropped into a deep curtsy.
“Wine,” was all Catherine said. But after the chit went away, she turned to her daughter and said, “You would not want me to spare her, would you?”
Slowly Isabeau shook her head. Her gaze was steely. Recently a servant of the Cahors had denounced the family to the bishop, claiming they had sacrificed the newborn babe of the miller’s wife to their Goddess. The traitor had been a young laundress who had been cast aside for another. Her father had insisted that the young nobleman who had kept company with her pay for having lowered her marriage value. But the bishop’s thinking had run with that of the nobleman’s family: the lower classes did not need to marry; it was a luxury for them, and if the girl had thrown away her chances, then it was the will of God.
But the damage of her spiteful gossip was done, and throughout the nearby city of Toulouse, the rumor spread that the Cahors were sacrificing babies.
After a time, the bishop had come to visit Catherine, and left with many boxes of gold coins to continue the Lord’s work. He assured the nervous townsfolk that there were no witches, sorcerers, or warlocks to be found anywhere near such God-fearing Christian folk as they.
Still, the talk grew more heated, and both the Deveraux and the Cahors had reason to worry—the Cahors more so, because the foolish Deveraux conducted their magical lives with contempt for discretion and subtlety.
“Berenice shall be dead by morning,” Catherine said.
