by Nancy Holder
I miss Amanda. And Holly. And my cat. Oh, how I miss Hecate.
And then she was drifting along . . . drifting and bobbing . . . on water . . . down a river; she was the Lady of the Island, and she dare not see the imprisoned one; if she looked on him she would go mad because he was so hideous. . . .
“Nicki . . . ,” came a voice. “Nicki, where are you? My father is sending the falcon to find you. Let me find you first.”
“Eli?” she slurred. Her body was so heavy; her head weighed a ton. She was aware that she was slipping lower into the water, the beautiful river that wound past the island . . . where . . . Jer . . .
“Nicki?”
She sank slowly, like Ophelia, with holly and lilies twined in her hair. Down, deeply down, the water caressing her chin; then down again, to her lower lip . . .
Drifting along as men sang holy words, and Eli whispered at her . . .
. . . and the waters met over her upper lip. Through her eyelids, in a magical way, she became aware that someone was standing beside the tub, and saying to her in a language she didn’t speak, but in the ways of dreams and enchantments, she could understand, “Wake up, Nicole. Wake up, or you will die.”
But Nicole couldn’t move. A strange lassitude had overtaken her. She let herself slide deeper into the water . . . . It was so warm, so inviting . . . and she was so very, very tired . . .
. . . of living. . . .
The woman’s soft voice said fearfully, in the same lilting foreign language—it’s Old French, Nicki realized—“The curse is water ....”
FOUR
SNOW MOON
Prepare now, House of Deveraux
To wreak vengeance on all our foes
Careful now as we plan the worst
Think and scheme, pray and curse
We huddle together beneath the skies
Their darkness reflected in our eyes
Rest and plot the overthrow
Of the House of Deveraux
Holly and Amanda: Seattle, October
Holly and Amanda took turns watching over Uncle Richard as he collapsed into a drunken stupor and began to snore. They had no idea what to do with him, and they called Tante Cecile on her cell phone for help. She had come over immediately, with Silvana in tow.
The voodoo priestess had called upon the loa, the gods, who could also possess people, and they advised her to keep him locked in his bedroom until a full exorcism could be conducted. As Richard had no witch blood in his veins, Tante Cecile assumed that Michael had been able to possess him because he had been weakened by drink. It was a known fact in occult circles that people in altered states of consciousness were easier to invade than those who kept their wits about them. Those of the old traditions—the Druids, the pagans, shaman, Orphic Mystery cultists, and even ancient Christians—willingly relinquished themselves for the use of their spirits and gods through potent herbs, fasting, and even pain.
But Richard was another matter.
“Michael could try to force him to hurt you,” Tante Cecile told them as she sat with her daughter, Amanda, and Holly in the living room.
Amanda nodded dully. Holly’s heart went out to her. She’d been through so much.
Then her cousin muttered, “He’s already hurt us. He stood by while Mom . . . She needed someone stronger.”
Holly traded shocked looks with Silvana. “Amanda, you’re not blaming your dad for your mom’s . . . that she went to Michael Deveraux.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word “affair.”
Silvana chimed in. “For heaven’s sake, Amanda, Michael Deveraux bewitched your mother!”
Amanda balled her fists. “He didn’t need to bewitch her. She would’ve . . .” She took a deep breath. “Daddy doesn’t know this, but Michael wasn’t the first.”
“Oh, Mandy, no,” Holly said softly.
“Yes. Yes.” She touched her fingertips to her forehead. “I found her other diaries right after the funeral. I read them, and then I burned them. But Daddy got to her most recent one before I could. That was the one about Michael.”
The others were speechless. Holly thought back to her parents and how unhappy they’d been together. Did either one of them cheat?
She couldn’t bear the thought.
Suddenly a trio of stricken yowls pierced the silence. It was the cats, howling in terror, the three flashing down the stairs and racing into the living room, where Bast deposited a dead bird at Holly’s feet. It was about two feet long, far too large for a cat Bast’s size to bring down, very black and shiny. A trickle of blood dribbled onto the carpet from its breast. As it lay on its side, one lifeless eye glared up at Holly.
As Amanda and Silvana jumped to their feet, Tante Cecile bent over the cat’s gory trophy and murmured an incantation. From her jeans pocket she pulled a chicken claw and gestured at the air above the body, then around it. Silvana joined her; they were speaking a language Holly didn’t know, but she took Amanda’s hand and said, “Within, without, our wards hold. The circle cannot fall.”
Amanda joined in. “Witchly sisters are we, strong of spirit, stout of heart; we demand protection from the Goddess; we are her moon children.”
There was a sudden flurry in the chimney, as if of birds trying to fly out; Bast leaped into Holly’s lap, raised up on her back legs, and put her paws on Holly’s chest. Her yellow eyes stared into Holly’s. Holly stared back. Hecate mewed plaintively, over and over and over again.
A chill crept through the room; Holly almost felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped slightly. Tante Cecile eyed her carefully and said, “She is with us.”
“She?” Holly asked.
Tante Cecile stared at Amanda, who glanced around the room and cried out, “Mom?”
“No, Amanda,” Tante Cecile said sadly. “Isabeau.”
Holly swallowed. Amanda nodded, disappointed but focused on the task at hand, and took a deep breath. She murmured, “Blessed be.”
“Blessed be,” Holly added.
Tante Cecile said, “Ignore the bird, girls. Make a circle with me.”
The trio moved away from the sofa and closer to the fireplace. As Tante Cecile bent down and placed logs on the andiron, she turned to Holly and said, “Make a fire, honey. It’s cold.”
Holly nodded. She found a place inside herself and filled it with the heat and color of fire, imagining it, seeing orange, yellow, and red flames, smelling the smoke. She said in Latin, “Succendo aduro!” and the fire ignited.
No one was surprised. Holly had been able to start fires for months. Black Fire was another story.
I don’t know what one has to be or do to be able to conjure that, she thought, and I’m not sure I want to know.
Though the others brightened at the sight of the fire, Holly felt no warmth from it. She was getting colder, and the chill was seeping into her bones.
Amanda said to her, “Holly, there’s a blue glow around your head.”
The others nodded. “I see it too,” Silvana said.
She looked down at her hands; they were not glowing. Then all of a sudden it was as if someone had drilled a little hole in the center of her skull and poured chilled pudding into it. The sensation seeped through her head, giving her a cold headache and half-freezing her face in place. She felt slowed down—her breathing, her heartbeat, her thoughts. She became aware that the other three had grouped around her and someone pushed her gently into a chair. Then they placed their hands on her head and Tante Cecile began to speak in French.
Holly felt herself answering, also in French.
“Je suis . . . Isabeau.”
Then Holly lost track of what was going on; she was vaguely aware of the outer world, but her attention was being forced on an image she saw with her mind’s eye: a beautiful woman—her ancestress, Isabeau—locked in a passionate embrace with Jer . . . no, not Jer Deveraux, but his ancestor, Jean, husband to Isabeau . . . they’re in their marriage bed. . . . The hangings are red and green, the colors of the Deveraux; mistletoe and o
ak and ivy twine everywhere; it’s like a forest; there are herbs burning in the fireplace for fertility. The moon is full; her heart is full, and so is his. They have enchanted each other; passion has ignited; they are in desperate love . . . not expected . . . not welcomed . . .
“. . . though we couple,” Isabeau thought inside Holly’s head, “we are mortal enemies, fully prepared to murder one another in this very bed; if he does not . . .”
And then the image blurred, as if someone had changed a channel.
Now Holly was standing in a strange bathroom, calmly looking down at Nicole, whose head had just sunk beneath the water. Bubbles sputtered on the surface.
“Aidez . . . la Nicole,” Isabeau said inside her mind. “I tried to wake her, but she cannot hear me. She will be able to hear you, Holly. Wake her up!”
More bubbles trickled upward to the surface.
“Nicole!” she shouted aloud. “Nicole, wake up!”
Nicole’s head shot up from the water; she looked around, startled.
The cold sensation immediately dissipated, and Holly became aware of the other three women, whose faces were filled with concern.
“What about her? What’s wrong?” Amanda cried. “Where’s my sister?”
“Isabeau,” Tante Cecile commanded, “speak to us.”
There was no reply. The room was warm to her, and she felt alone and very dizzy.
Isabeau had left.
Holly said, “It’s just me now.” She took a deep breath and told them what she had seen.
Amanda grabbed Holly’s shoulders. Her face was contorted with fear, her features constricted while her eyes were huge.
“Nicole woke up, right? She’s okay?”
“As far as I could tell,” Holly said honestly.
“No clues about where she was?” Tante Cecile queried.
Holly shook her head. “I’m sorry. It was just a bathroom.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Silvana put in. Her silver beads flashed in the firelight as she shook her head. “You probably saved Nicole’s life.”
Holly nodded. “I feel that. I’m certain that I did.” She gestured at the dead bird, pointed at it, and murmured a quick spell of levitation. As if by invisible hands, the inert bird lifted into the air and floated to the fireplace. Then it was flung with contempt into the fire.
It burst into flame and was instantly consumed.
Then one by one, the cats walked to them, joining their circle: Holly’s cat, Bast; Amanda’s beloved Freya; and Nicole’s Hecate. All three named for goddesses, all three more than cats.
“Blessings on you, Bast,” Holly said. “You caught an enemy.”
The cat blinked up at her and began to purr. The other two sat on their haunches beside Bast, and stared up expectantly at Holly.
“Your familiars,” Tante Cecile told her, “are waiting for you to tell them what to do.”
Holly and Amanda looked first at each other and then at the cats. Amanda said, “Patrol the house. Kill any enemies that you find.”
Holly said to her cousin, “That’s a good idea. And we should also—”
A sharp contraction rippled through her. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed.
She began to jerk uncontrollably, arms and legs flailing. She heard Amanda shouting her name, heard Silvana and her aunt crying out in French.
Then she was struggling under rip-current waters rushing everywhere, tumbling her over. She was back in the Grand Canyon, reliving the accident, clutching at the straps that held her in the raft. She knew in her soul that nearby, her father was already dead, her mother had but seconds to live, and Tina was going to last longest of all, nearly an entire minute longer than Ryan, their river guide, who was losing consciousness at this moment. And she was drowning.
Then the blue glow materialized, as before, and took form as Isabeau, who floated toward her, her fingers nimbly working the buckles . . .
. . . and her voice filled Holly’s mind once more: It is the curse of the Cahors, ma chere Holly. Those who love us die not inflame, but by water. They die by water.
It was the Deveraux who put that curse on us. They have hounded us through time, attempting to kill us off.
You must survive. We must end this vendetta . . . forever.
On the floor, Holly gasped for air, sucking it in hungrily, starved for it, and began to cough.
Tante Cecile patted her hard on the back; water spewed out of her mouth, and the other two girls cried out.
Amanda was beside her in an instant. She took Holly’s hands in hers and said, “Your fingers are wet.”
Holly blurted, “Amanda, there’s a curse on us. People we love, they drown. It’s the curse of the Cahors.”
She buried her face in her hands. “I killed my parents with my witch blood. I killed them because I’m cursed!”
“Hush, now,” Tante Cecile ordered her. “You didn’t kill them.”
“But it’s real,” Holly insisted, pulling her hands from her face and lifting her head. “Isabeau told me.” She clutched at Amanda. “What do we do?”
“We use that knowledge, and we work with it,” Tante Cecile cut in. Her face was filled with grim purpose. “Silvana, get a big bowl of water from their kitchen. If that’s how they play, that’s how we play. We are going to drown whatever is possessing Richard Anderson.”
It was wild work, and it went by in a blur of nerves and exhaustion.
The four gathered in the bedroom, where they had bound an unconscious Uncle Richard to the bed. As Silvana lit candles and sounded a small gong, Tante Cecile chanted and talked to the loa. The cats joined in, howling. Then something dark floated out of him, and at Tante Cecile’s instruction, Holly grabbed it with both hands and plunged it into the bowl of water.
It struggled in her hands and then went limp. She pulled her hands away, and it was a strange, tiny creature that reminded Holly of a cross between a frog and an elf.
“It’s an imp,” Tante Cecile said with satisfaction. “You killed it.”
Holly nodded, near collapse. On Tante Cecile’s instruction, she dragged herself off to bed.
Sleep came quickly to Holly, but the oblivion of rest was short-lived. Soon she was dreaming, and she was standing once more in the room with Jer. She tried to speak with him, but no words would come, and he lay, hunched over on his side, asleep. For a minute she watched the rise and fall of his chest, willing him to wake and to see her.
It was no use.
Suddenly a hand brushed against the back of her neck. She jumped and turned around, heart racing, and prepared to fight.
A woman in a long white gown stood there. Red hair fell in waves all the way down to her knees. Her face was unearthly beautiful but with sad, haunting eyes that pierced Holly’s soul.
She shook her head slowly as if to silence Holly’s unspoken questions. Then she raised her hand and beckoned Holly to follow. Holly passed with her through the wall of the cell and then followed her for what seemed ages through twisting corridors lit only by sporadic torches.
Neither the woman’s nor Holly’s feet made any sound against the stone floors, and the silence unnerved her. At last Holly strained, trying to clear her throat, to make some sound to shatter the silence that overwhelmed her. Her throat felt constricted and she felt the fear growing in her. She had to speak, to say something. . . .
The woman turned and laid a pale finger against her ruby lips. Again she shook her head and slowly pointed toward a dark alcove in the wall. Holly could see nothing in the blackness and finally shook her head in frustration. The woman glided back toward her and gestured for Holly to close her eyes. When she did, the woman’s fingers pressed gently on her eyelids.
When her touch was gone, Holly opened her eyes. Her vision was sharper, clearer, and within the alcove she saw two huge beasts staring with unblinking eyes right at her. She jerked backward, but the woman’s hand was on her arm, steadying her. She pointed to the animals, then to her own eyes, and shook her head no.<
br />
Somehow the beasts couldn’t see them, but what Holly saw of them terrified her. Both were as big as lions, though they had the general shape of dogs. Their eyes glowed red and their brown-black fur stood up all over their bodies coarse and unyielding as spines. Their fangs were three inches long and saliva dripped in a steady flow from their open mouths. Hellhounds, Holly thought as she shuddered. They can’t see me, but they might be able to hear me.
The woman turned and began to move on, and Holly hurried to follow behind. At long last they passed into a room where the woman stopped. She turned slowly to Holly and moved her arm, as if displaying the room to her. Holly gazed about her, her newfound sight seeing everything in excruciating detail.
Bottles of strange-looking liquids lined musty shelves. Still more bottles and flasks littered each of six huge work tables. Ancient manuscripts written in half a dozen different languages lay open everywhere. In the middle of one table a tall pointed hat with stars on it sat in a prominent place.
She felt a smile break out on her face. It looked just like the hat Mickey wore as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. She strode forward to touch the hat, trying to hold in her laughter. Her fingers were an inch from it when the woman clasped her wrist hard.
Holly bit back a startled exclamation of pain as she looked at the other woman. A warning shone in her eyes as she shook her head fiercely. Puzzled, Holly turned back to look at the hat. The stars on it were suddenly alive, glowing and twisting about on the hat in a crazy kaleidoscope. Heat was pouring from its surface and Holly pulled her hand back quickly.
She stared in wonder as the hat slowly returned to the inanimate object it had been before. What would have happened if I had actually touched it? She could feel the power emanating from it now; she had been too amused by it earlier to notice. The woman half smiled at her before extending her hand toward one of the walls.
Holly followed her gaze to a weathered and water-stained hanging. It looked to be ancient parchment, or maybe it was leather, stippled with faded gray shapes and letters.
It’s a map.
Excitement rippled through her.
She’s trying to tell me where Jer is!
