by Nancy Holder
“It sounds so crazy, when we talk about it like this,” Holly concluded.
Amanda slowly nodded. “Crazy.”
Her aunt called, “Holly?”
“Let’s talk when you get back,” Amanda said.
Holly nodded.
She went downstairs. She was wearing her black pants and a black wool sweater of Amanda’s. With November the weather had changed overnight from vaguely cold, like San Francisco, to truly cold.
She walked toward the front door and put her hand on the doorknob of the ice-cream parlor foyer.
A chill skittered up her spine. Say no, a little voice told her. Don’t go outside.
Her aunt joined her, smiling at Holly as she waited for Holly to open the door.
Don’t.
Not knowing what else to do, Holly opened the door and went out onto the porch.
They began to walk down the stairs together.
She thought about people who had premonitions about getting on airplanes that crashed; or staying away from buildings that started on fire; or refusing to answer a door when a serial rapist lurked on the other side. Then she roused herself; this was her aunt—what was she going to do: tell her she suddenly had a funny feeling about accepting her as her guardian?
“Nicole probably had a rehearsal,” her aunt said. “She’s going to make a wonderful tragic heroine.” Her eyes sparkled. “I was in so many plays when I was in high school.”
“It must have been fun,” Holly said weakly.
“It was. I’m not going to let Nicole make the same mistake I did. I didn’t really believe I had any talent, and it seemed kind of pointless. . . .”
The Mercedes was in the driveway. Her aunt clicked the security remote and let her in, trilling on and on about the fabulous theater. She got in too, and began to buckle her seat belt.
“ . . . so many opportunities these days, with cable movies and so much regional theater . . . ,” Marie-Claire was saying as she started up the car. . . .
GET OUT! screamed every nerve ending in Holly’s body.
Without her effort, the door on her side opened. Someone yanked her out, and she fell hard onto the driveway.
“Aunt Marie-Claire!” she shouted as an invisible hand yanked Holly, dragging her along. Her palms and knees stung.
“Holly?” her aunt cried, leaning across the passenger side to stare in amazement at her niece.
And then, with Aunt Marie-Claire still in the car, the car burst into flames.
Observed and released to her uncle in the waiting room, Holly joined the anxious crowd waiting to hear about Aunt Marie-Claire. Eli Deveraux was with Nicole, who turned to him at one point and whispered, “Is my eye makeup smeared?”
Holly was losing it, reliving the deaths of her parents and Tina. The hospital volunteer kept telling her over and over that her aunt was all right except for a few burns, and that it was a lucky thing Eli and Nicole had driven up at just that moment. It was due to his heroic rescue efforts that she and Aunt Marie-Claire had been saved.
He stood there preening, accepting Nicole’s fervent thanks and a strong, grateful handshake from Uncle Richard.
Then Michael Deveraux showed, all preoccupied successful architect with his expensive loafers and his cell phone. Holly saw the expression of pain cross her uncle’s face at the sight of him. Michael turned away as the man acknowledged him, then said to his older son, “Eli, thanks for calling.” Uncle Richard bobbed his head once. He remained silent, but his jaw was set hard and a muscle jumped in his cheek.
He knows about Aunt Marie-Claire and Michael. Her heart broke for him, and she felt horribly complicit. She had seen them together in San Francisco. They had been together at the funeral. But what could she do, arrive at this man’s house and say, By the way . . . ?
Michael’s dark, deep-set eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips into an angry line, studying her as if he could read her thoughts. In a self-defensive gesture, she started to look away, then returned his expression with one of steely fearlessness.
I’m not afraid of you, she lied.
His answer was a smile of utter contempt.
Then the E.R. doors hummed open and a woman in scrubs pushed Holly’s aunt toward them. Hunched in her wheelchair, Aunt Marie-Claire looked old. Seeing her that way was a shock to Holly, and she felt oddly guilty for seeing her that way, knowing how important beauty and youth were to Marie-Claire. Her aunt’s cheeks and arms were bandaged, and there were liver-colored bruises around her eyes.
Her aunt’s first look was for Michael; her second, for her husband. And it was while she was looking at Uncle Richard that her facade fell, and she was a very frightened middle-aged woman whose last remnants of beauty may have been taken from her.
“I . . . I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t spring for that face-lift yet,” she murmured as her husband’s arms came around her and held her close.
Eli moved to his father. They spoke in low voices. Then they both stared at Holly. Her cheeks burned, and this time, she turned away.
“You’re beautiful, honey,” Uncle Richard told his wife.
“No,” she whispered. “No, Richard.”
“Let’s go home,” Uncle Richard said hoarsely. “All of us.”
Nicole opened her mouth, then closed it. She cocked her head at Eli and grimaced apologetically as if to say, Sorry, but I’m one of ‘us.’
Eli looked pissed, and Nicole moved her shoulders and held open her hands as if to calm him down.
Holly was stunned. She was going to leave with him. Her mother nearly burned to death and she was going to flounce off with her slimy boyfriend.
Outraged, she took Nicole’s arm and said, “Yes, all of us.”
As the Cathers family trooped behind Marie-Claire in her wheelchair, Holly completely ignored the two Deveraux men. The vibes coming off them were unnerving. She wanted to ask them where Jer was, but she didn’t say a word.
Nevertheless, their gazes followed her as she passed them. Her back stiffened. Her lip trembled and she bit it, hard. Lines were being drawn between them and her; she could feel it, although she didn’t quite understand it. The Deveraux were taking a stand . . . against her.
This is a turning point, she thought. Everything that’s been happening . . . it’s coming to a head. How I know that, I have no idea.
But I do know it.
ELEVEN
DYAD MOON
Passion burns and fire grows
We triumph now over all our woes
We cast our foes upon the pyre
Burn them now with Hell’s own fire
And now we plant in maiden’s heart
Indecent thought for it to start
Tempt the lords of castles great
That from your passion may grow hate
School was a rush and a crush the next morning, and a refuge from everything that was happening. The Deveraux had nothing to do with her school—neither brother went there—and she felt a little safer here than at home.
After she’d gone to bed, her heart about to burst from her chest, she managed to calm down and convince herself that everything that had happened could be explained in a natural way. People’s cars did have mechanical problems, after all. And this was Seattle, not Amityville.
And I have the broken arm to prove it, she thought sarcastically as she and Amanda moved through the halls of the high school.
Time to admit it: Magic is real, and it is taking over our lives.
“Hey,” Amanda blurted, shocked to a standstill. She slid a glance toward Holly, and the two girls moved more closely together.
Jer walked toward them on the path to the gym bordered by tall privet hedges. He was dressed from head to toe in black and carrying a long black leather coat.
Oh, my God. She was terrified, and exhilarated. Her body was electrified. He used magic on me. He . . . he’s a warlock.
Just like everyone says.
“How’s your mother?” he asked Amanda, staring at Holly’s
arm.
“Okay. Well, no.” Amanda shifted her weight. Then she glanced from Holly to Jer and back again.
There were circles under his eyes, and his beard growth was longer than usual. He said, “I’m . . . I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
She stared up at him. “Something has already happened,” she said slowly.
They regarded each other. He reached out a hand . . . she began to take it . . .
I’m drowning in his eyes.
His chest rose and fell and he licked his lower lip, almost as if he were a vampire about to sink his fangs into her neck.
The bell blared, startling Holly out of her reverie.
Amanda said, “Come on, Holly,” and took her arm.
Jer looked as if he were about to say something. Then he nodded silently, and walked away.
Holly was terrified.
“Holly,” Amanda said, swallowing hard. “Um, I used to have this friend,” she said tentatively. “Her aunt was into voodoo.”
“Is that what you think this is?” Holly asked.
They stopped walking. “I don’t care if we’re late,” Amanda said. “We’re not saying the word we need to say.” She took a deep breath. “Magic.”
Holly took an equally deep breath. “Warlocks.”
Then Amanda raised her brows. “Witches?”
Holly studied Amanda’s arm, and then her own. She felt so numb, so frightened, as if someone had just told her she had one more hour to live. She looked back up at her cousin and said, “Maybe we should call your friend. Did you pack your cell?” Pagers and phones were not allowed on campus.
“Of course not,” Amanda said bitterly. “I’m the good one. Nicole’s the one who breaks all the rules and gets away with murde . . . everything.” Amanda turned white. “Oh, my God. Nicole.”
Holly stared at her. “Amanda, you don’t think Nicole set your mom’s car on fire . . . ?” She swallowed. “When I saw her and your mom, with all the sticks . . . they were doing good stuff. Making wishes for happiness and love for us.”
“We have our cats for that,” Amanda said sarcastically. She bit her thumbnail. “How long have they been doing stuff like that, with the sticks and all. They had a whole secret society going. What else have they been doing?”
“Amanda, I know it hurts that they didn’t include you, but they were doing things for good. Why would your own sister try to set your mom’s car on fire?”
Amanda burst into tears. “Because Nicole and I know about her and Michael Deveraux. They’re sleeping together! Oh, God, Holly. My poor father. He knows, too, and it’s killing him. So he goes to work and makes more money so she can buy all her makeup and her stupid jewelry . . . I hate her sometimes. I just want to kill her. . . .”
“I know, I know,” Holly soothed. She felt herself on the rapids again, trying not to drown. “But you wouldn’t really kill her, Amanda. You don’t have it in you. And neither does Nicole.”
Amanda sank down on a stone bench and started sobbing. Holly put her arm around her shoulders and they sat together for a while. While Amanda cried, Holly tried to make sense of it all. Her attraction to Jer, all the weirdness . . . was Jer trying to hurt them?
But he just said he won’t let anything happen to us.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Ditch school and . . . I don’t know, go to the mall.”
“And call my friend,” Amanda murmured.
“Yes, we’ll call your friend.”
They found a pay phone, but Amanda realized that she didn’t have the number with her, and the directory couldn’t find a listing for Cecile Beaufrere in New Orleans. They agreed to look in her phone book as soon as they got home, but they couldn’t go there yet—school was still in session, and Amanda’s mother would realize that they had ditched.
“If Mom’s even home,” Amanda had muttered hotly. She started to cry again.
Holly tried to distract her. Bargains were to be had at drugstores, so they went to the Rite Aid at the mall first. It was such a mundane, everyday place—kind of like one’s own garage—that Holly figured they would be safe there.
In the basket dangling from her right hand was a bottle of nail polish and two pairs of tights, and for the moment her mind had blocked out the dark problems of Michael Deveraux and magic and death; when she turned down the housewares aisle on her way to the pharmacy area, the only thing she was thinking about was vitamin C and should she buy regular or buffered?
Something whacked her hard on the back of the head.
Shocked, Holly whirled as a blue plastic Tupperware container clattered to the floor.
“Hey!” she said sharply. “Who threw that? Not funny!” She waited but there was no answer, of course—kids, probably. Sometimes they found the oddest things funny. Once when she’d been twelve she had ripped all the labels off the cans in her mom’s pantry; at the time, she’d thought it was hilarious, but now she could understand why she’d spent a week grounded in her room.
She sent a final glare over her shoulder toward the other end of the empty aisle, then shook her head and put the Tupperware back in its spot on the shelf.
There was a stinging along the back of her right arm and she jerked as a glass—real glass—bounced off her elbow and shattered at her feet. Another one zinged off the shelf, catching her high on the forehead.
Everything on the shelves around her began to tremble.
She turned in a slow circle as drinking glasses shook and a large display of kitchen knives rattled ominously. Inching backward, turning, turning, turning . . . she had maybe fifteen feet to go when the rattling changed to chattering and a sort of charge built up around her.
“Amanda?” she cried.
At the same time, a young woman turned into the aisle. She was pushing a baby carriage.
“No! Go back!” Holly yelled.
Startled, the woman yanked the carriage to a halt and stared at her. Around Holly, the merchandise on display suddenly quieted. Was it over? She said to the woman, “I’m sorry. You must think I’m on dru—”
Everything seemed to fly at her at once.
Holly screamed and dove for the floor, landing painfully on the arm still bound by the sling. Her basket thumped in front of her and she grabbed for it and yanked it over her head as everything from plastic tumblers to kitchen spoons pelted her. Knives, measuring cups, eggbeaters—in a cartoon it would have been funny; girl as a crippled, three-legged crab trying to scuttle away from a rock storm. The only thing that was the least bit in her favor was that everything whipping off the shelves appeared to have been sent to where her head had been, without regard for her change in elevation.
She screamed again as something large and sharp landed point-down on top of the basket; she felt it scrape across her scalp. There was more screaming going on—the woman down at the other end, other customers and employees who’d come running to see what all the noise was about and then freaked out. All Holly could do was desperately clutch her way across the debris-strewn floor toward the end of the aisle. She’d made it to within a few feet of the aisle’s end when everything went suddenly, blessedly quiet.
Too terrified to stop, Holly propelled herself the last of the distance and spun on the floor, peering from beneath the protective covering of the basket. The shelves were empty, or nearly so. As she and the others stared, one lone item, a heavy wooden rolling pin, rolled to the edge of the next to the bottom shelf and paused, as if it were seeking its target but couldn’t find it. Finally it swung back and forth a few times, then simply fell over the edge and was still.
Heart pounding, Holly cautiously lifted the hand-basket off her head and looked at it. A chill ran up her arms when she realized what had made it feel so heavy on one side—there were almost a dozen knives sticking point-first out of the top, as if they had found the space above her head and just dropped.
Holly threw the basket away from herself as a couple of people reached out to help her to her feet. She ached in t
oo many places to count, and she was probably going to be bruised all over by tomorrow morning. Before she could finish getting her bearings, someone was leaning into her face, his angry words filling her nose with a cinnamon-scented breath mint.
“Look at my store,” the man shouted. “The cops are on their way, and you’d better have an explanation!”
Holly scowled at the man, a short guy whose face was flushed with anger. His store? She’d very nearly been killed here, and all this jerky drugstore manager could think about was his store?
“What kind of a place is this, anyway?” she demanded in a loud voice. “You stock your shelves so that a truck goes by outside and everything falls on the customers? It’s not even safe in here—why, I ought to sue you!”
The manager gaped at her, his face going from anger-induced pink to the color of unflavored yogurt. “W-what?”
Holly leaned down and swept up the knife-studded basket, then brandished it at him. The blades vibrated menacingly, and the growing crowd of people around them gave a collective, “Oooooh!”
“I come in here for a pair of tights and this happens? Is this some kind of joke? Yeah, let’s have the police hear about this, all right—in fact, I can’t wait for them to see this!” She looked around. “Where’s my cousin?”
“Excuse me, please.”
Holly turned to see an older man, more distinguished-looking and with a close-cropped, thinning head of hair making his way through the crowd. “Julian,” he said with a deceptively cool smile toward the shorter man, “go in the back, please. I’ll handle this.”
Julian—whose name tag Holly now noticed said ASSISTANT MANAGER—seemed to shrink a little, and he nodded. “It was vandalism,” he muttered.
The new arrival eyed Holly critically. “Are you all right, miss? Shall I call an ambulance?”
“Holly?” Amanda ran over. “Oh, my God.”
“Get me out of here,” Holly whispered.
Amanda reached down and clasped Holly’s hand. Energy jolted through Holly. Amanda felt it too.
Once they got outside, Amanda said, “Some kind of barrier kept me from getting to you. I couldn’t move. I’m so sorry.”
