by Nancy Holder
There was a silence.
Then Amanda said, “He’s back. Michael Deveraux is back.”
Holly closed her eyes; dread and stark fear washed over her.
Here we go, she thought. The battle lines have just been drawn. How can we possibly fight him?
More to the point . . . how can we hope to beat him?
Nicole: Cologne, Germany, September
Nicole threw a terrified glance over her shoulder as she raced down the corridors of the train station. A train rumbled away; her footsteps echoed like staccato points to the bass line of its leave-taking. The pink and gold streaks of dawn chased the shadows, and she was terribly grateful; the night had held sway far too long, and she was exhausted.
I should have stayed in Seattle, she thought. I thought I’d be safer if I ran away . . . but there’s that old saying about dividing and conquering . . . except that I don’t know what it is. . . .
Ever since she’d been in London three months ago, something had been following her. It was not a person, not in the traditional sense; it was something that could glide along the walls of buildings and perch on gabled rooftops—something that could trail after her with a rush of wings and a lone cry. She had not been able to see it; but in her mind, it was a falcon, and it was Michael Deveraux’s eyes and ears, harrying her like the little mouse she was.
She wasn’t certain that it had ever actually located her. Perhaps it was blindly lurking, waiting for her to use magic to reveal herself. That idea gave her hope that she might survive long enough to figure out what to do. I’m terrified to contact Holly and Amanda. . . . What if that reveals my presence to whatever this thing is? Like answering “Polo” when the blindfolded guy who’s saying “Marco” is six inches away from you?
She was on her way to holy ground; she had covered much of Europe from London to France to Germany by leapfrogging from church to graveyard to chapel to cathedral. She didn’t know if her gut instinct to seek safe harbor in mosques, synagogues, and Christian churches was correct. All she knew was that she felt better within walls built by people who adhered to some sort of faith tradition . . . as if their faith protected her from evil.
She listened to that instinct and to the urge to keep moving. The shadow was following her, and she had the feeling that if she kept moving, it might never land on her—might not carry her off, the way that huge falcon had carried off Eli.
Did he die?
What about Holly and Amanda? I abandoned them. I’m so ashamed. I was so scared. . . .
She had ridden a train all night. Her destination this dawn was the famous Dom of Cologne, an ancient medieval cathedral said to house relics of the Three Kings. She had read about it in a guidebook; she had bought and memorized more guidebooks about religious buildings in Europe than could be carried in a fully stocked travel store. She had taken an enormous number of trains. She had spent tons of money.
Problem is, I’m almost out of money. . . . What am I going to do when I can’t run anymore?
Up the steps, she stopped. A hundred feet away, rising at the edge of a square, the tall Gothic structure loomed like a monolith. Its spire stretched toward the heavens; the rosettes and statues that cluttered the entry were dark gray, welcoming.
Gray magic is what the Cathers are all about, she thought. Our ancestors, the Cahors, were not very good people. They were just . . . less evil than the Deveraux.
We aren’t necessarily the good guys.
Still, heaven seems happy to shelter us.
Taking a deep breath, Nicole raced across the square and pushed open the doors of the church.
It was cool inside; a row of men in brown robes tied with black sashes stood with their backs to her and sang in Latin. A priest in a collar raised his eyes inquiringly; she knew he saw a young woman in jeans and a peasant top, carrying a backpack. Her dark hair was coiled on top of her head and she wore no makeup. She was sunburned and there were circles under her eyes.
In three months Nicole had had an unbroken night of sleep exactly twice.
I’m so tired and scared.
Scowling at her, the priest waved his finger in her face. “Hier darf man nicht schlafen, verstehen Sie?” he asked her sternly. Do you understand that you may not sleep in here?
“Ja,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes welled with tears, and the man immediately softened.
He walked a few steps backward, gesturing to the pews. There were no other people there except for the row of monks singing an early-morning Mass.
Nicole inclined her head and said, “Danke schön.” “Thank you” was one of the “Useful Words and Phrases” she had memorized from one of her guidebooks.
She slid into the nearest pew and sat back, staring up at the celestial heights of the arched ceiling high above her. As she let the atmosphere of the church permeate her being, she could visualize the sun piercing the darkness above the spire.
And then, in her mind’s eye, a dark shadow flitted between her and the sun.
She gasped aloud. The traveling shadow was the silhouette of a bird. And she sat inside this deceptive trap like a doomed, helpless mouse.
Then the church bells ran pealing out the message, All is well, all is well.
And that was a damn lie.
Jer: The Island of Avalon, October
The lie was that this was being alive.
Each instant that he lived was an eternity of torment. Each breath he took was a bellows in his chest, stoking the Black Fire flames as they roasted his heart and his lungs.
If he had been capable of coherent thought, Jer Deveraux would have begged the God to let him die. And beneath that supplication would have fluttered the terrible fear that he was dead already . . . and in Hell.
Echoing through his throbbing skull, words he could not comprehend told the tale of the rest of his unbearable existence: “If you have not killed Holly Cathers by midsummer, Michael, I will kill your son and feed his soul to my servants.”
And Michael Deveraux had answered, “I am yours to command in this and all things.”
From her perch in the shimmering blue mist that was the magic of the Cahors, the lady hawk, Pandion, ruffled her feathers and cocked her head. She heard a plaintive cry, as that from a mate, and prepared to take flight in search of it.
And from the green-glowing ether that was his rookery, Fantasme, the falcon familiar of the Deveraux, sharpened his talons on the skull of a long-dead foe.
Holly and Amanda: Seattle, October
We are all still alive. It’s been almost a month since the apparition of the falcon in our Circle, and we have managed to keep Michael Deveraux at bay.
Holly stared out at the ocean, allowing its vastness to sweep over her, engulf her until she felt small once more. She drew strength from her solitary walks along the shore; sometimes she wondered if Isabeau’s ghost walked with her, supporting her as she struggled to keep the coven together and to keep them safe from Michael Deveraux. There was power in the heartbeat of the waves, the ebb and flow of the great waters. The ocean was in its turn mother, lover, and enemy. The gentle, rhythmic lap of the waves was like the soothing beating of a mother’s heart as she cradled her baby.
Holly closed her eyes and let herself listen to the sound. She breathed in the fresh salty air, and for a moment she might have been anywhere—in San Francisco, her old home even, instead of her new one in Seattle.
Tears squeezed out from beneath her closed eyelids and rolled slowly down her cheeks. It had not been a good day. Any day you had to start with a phone call to your lawyer was not a good day.
Holly was only nineteen, yet dealing with her parents’ attorney had become a part of her life. Between talking to him and the financial planner who helped oversee her inheritance, she thought she might scream. There were always questions to answer and more papers to sign. They wanted to discuss her finances and her options for the future.
What if I have no future? What if I die tomorrow? she thought, a wave of bitterness chokin
g her. I’m fighting for my life, for the lives of my family and friends, and nobody gets it. I don’t have time to worry about what I’m going to do five years from now. I probably won’t even be here.
Still, she knew that she should be grateful. If it weren’t for her parents’ careful planning, she wouldn’t have time to practice spells and learn all the practical things that could help extend her life. She would be too busy trying to work to keep herself fed. It was especially important now that Uncle Richard had given up all pretext of going to work. Good thing Aunt Marie-Claire had money, or Amanda would be in serious trouble.
In a way she envied Kari. The older girl still at least got to pretend that she had a life, something other than magic and spells. She was still going to grad school. Tommy and Amanda were trying to go to college as well. Holly knew that Amanda in particular, though, was struggling. Holly figured college was just one of those dreams she herself had to give up the day that she learned she was a witch. And that other people want to kill me.
She sighed heavily. The day had only gone from bad to worse when she had called the hospital to check on Barbara. Most weeks the news was the same: no change in status. This week, though, she could sense something, an uneasiness in the doctor’s voice that hadn’t been there seven days before. Something was wrong; she could feel it. She was sure that Barbara was somehow doing worse. And the doctors won’t admit it.
She felt herself begin to tremble. Barbara was her last tie to her own home, her parents, her childhood. Half a dozen times she had wanted to go to see her, to reassure herself that Barbara was truly still alive. But there were always more spells to learn, more protection rituals to perform. And there was the deep, dark fear in the back of her mind that if she got close to her, Barbara would die. Everything I love withers.
So she had come to the ocean to lose herself in its vastness, to seek its solace. The sea had comforted her before, and she prayed that it would again.
The waves reached up gently and tickled her toes, their caress soft and persuasive. The water called to her to come, explore, be one with it and its power. A tempting offer from a tempestuous lover. But Holly knew that the ocean could whisper words of soft promise one moment and then turn on you the next. It could change in seconds and kill so easily.
Never turn your back on it. Her father had told her that when she was five. She had been splashing in the waves for an hour when her mother called her to go put on more sunscreen. She had turned and tried to run out of the water. A huge wave had come out of nowhere and knocked her down. The undertow had sucked at her body, threatening to pull her out farther with it. She remembered trying to struggle, but the current had been too strong for her and she couldn’t stand up or get her head out of the water.
Daddy had swooped in and picked her up, carrying her carefully from the water and stepping backward the entire time. He had deposited her, frightened and crying, into her mother’s protective arms. She would never forget the look in his eyes as he bent down.
Never turn your back on the ocean, Holly. It may be beautiful, but it is also very dangerous.
She shivered now as an icy wind whipped around her and a wave slapped at her ankles. She took an involuntary step backward. Another wave slapped at her and she hopped back another step. The sound of the ocean was changing; instead of a gentle lapping sound, a dull roar jangled in her ears.
Startled, she had no time to react before a fresh wave crashed into her, soaking her in an instant in icy water waist-high and grasping at her with invisible hands.
The undertow pulled at her and she nearly lost her footing as she stumbled backward, shock quickly changing to fear. You are not five! her mind shouted at her as she fought to make it up onto the sand when another wave crashed around her chest. It knocked her off her feet and swept her several yards out.
I’ll be swept out to sea! Oh, my God, is this happening?
Her long skirt wound around her legs, binding them like a mermaid’s tail. Her arms were dead weights inside her heavy jacket. She could barely move, much less swim.
The fresh burst of panic focused her attention. I have to get out of these clothes.
“Goddess, grant me strength in battle and from death,” she murmured in a Spell of Protection. Whether it worked or she was buoyed by the thought that she was never truly alone, she managed to snake first one arm and then the other out of her heavy jacket. It bobbed in the waves like a bloated jellyfish.
She worked on her skirt next, but her hands fumbled at the drawstring. She couldn’t manage it; still terribly bogged down, she turned and tried to start swimming back to shore using only her arms. Within seconds, she was exhausted. Then a wave crashed over her and she coughed violently as her lungs dispelled the water she had just sucked in.
No sooner had she managed that, though, than another wave crested over her head. And another. Her brain began to numb and it locked on to the horrible images of the rafting trip that had claimed the lives of her parents and best friend. It’s been a year and now the water has come for me, she thought fuzzily.
I’m not the same helpless girl I was then, though. I’m a witch, and a powerful one. I should be able to do something to save myself.
She turned to look out to sea, her legs wearily treading water. What was it bodysurfers did? They rode the waves.
I can do that, too.
A huge wave began rolling in; Holly took a quick breath. “I can do this!” she cried as the wave reached her.
Her body was tossed up into the air, and then she was on top of the water, slightly in front of the crest of the wave.
She flew with dizzying speed toward the shore. Almost upon the beach, the wave broke behind her and threw her up onto the sand. Her mouth and eyes filled with the stinging granules as she clawed her way wildly up away from the water.
At last the strength in her limbs gave out and she collapsed, barely managing to roll onto her back as she coughed weakly. Her eyes stung and her face was raw, as though sand had been forcefully shoved into every pore and crevice. Her eyes began to tear fiercely and she let herself cry—to flush out her eyes, and to flush out her terror.
I nearly died. As I should have a year ago.
Don’t be ridiculous. I was not “supposed” to die. I was meant to live. I have a coven to run, followers to protect.
At last the tears stopped flowing; she blinked rapidly trying to clear her vision. Slowly the sky shifted into focus . . . and it was low and dark and menacing.
The air was heavy; it almost seemed to crackle. She glanced quickly around. Nothing seemed familiar. Had the wave washed her up farther down the beach?
Electricity crackled down her spine as she slowly straightened. There was magic here and it felt very, very old. Feeling strangely compelled, she turned around so that her back was to the ocean.
Oh, my . . .
TWO
FALLING LEAF MOON
We grow stronger with each death
Reborn with each foe’s last breath
With each sacrifice we renew
Our oaths to the Lord, loyalty true
We spin the wheel of the year
And know there is no cause to fear
For truth it is, that what has died
Strengthens us and dwells inside
The castle was ancient but beautiful. It called to her in a high tenor chant like a medieval troubadour telling the stories of King Arthur and his court. She felt as though she were floating as she moved toward it, her footsteps silent. The vast heap of stones was alive; she could feel it.
“Something wonderful happened here,” she whispered.
A shadow crossed her mind. “And also something horrible.”
Somehow she had covered the ground between her and the great walls without noticing. She reached out her hand to touch the weathered stone and her fingers tingled where they made contact. Power surged through the wall. It reached up her arm and wrapped itself around her, as though to bind her to itself for all eternity.
For a moment everything was dark and damp; fear rose again in her mind, and she thought, I’m drowning in the ocean; it’s a trick!
The panicky moment passed, though, just as she passed through the wall. She turned to stare at the wall for a moment, to marvel in amazement.
Something still called her, compelled her to follow. . . .
She passed through wall after wall. The last wall proved a challenge, resisting her pushing at first, but finally giving way to her efforts. She found herself in a room luxuriant with light and warmth from a fire blazing in a great hearth. When at last she stepped completely through, she realized that she was not alone in the room.
Seated before the fire was a man with his head on his fists. She walked up slowly behind him, without even a whisper of sound to give herself away. Who is he? Why does he sit with shoulders slumped in despair?
He must have felt something, for he looked up quickly, dropping his hands down toward his sides with a heavy clink.
She understood: Shackles bound the man’s wrists and ankles. Holly reached out to touch the band about his left wrist but was painfully repulsed. The man was a captive, both physically and magically.
What could be his crime?
“Living,” he answered.
She jumped backward, startled. She had not spoken out loud; how had he heard her?
“I can feel you, even though I can’t see you.” His voice was hoarse, yet hauntingly familiar. “It is you, isn’t it, Holly?”
He turned his face directly toward her, and for one brief moment she thought he saw her. She shrank backward, but his eyes passed over her and continued on, sweeping the area around her.
And now she could see his face clearly, or rather, what was left of it.
“Jer!” she gasped.
“I’m not so sure of that anymore,” he answered grimly, fixing in on the location of the sound and staring unnervingly at her left earlobe.
