Witch & Curse

by Nancy Holder

  She said, “Keep holding on to one another. We’re strongest that way. Concentrate. Keep your eyes open and look into one another’s eyes. We’re going to see ourselves living through this. We’re going to envision survival, embody survival.”

  Kari’s glance ticked to the left, and she let out a terrible scream.

  One of the creature’s tentacles was whipsawing the crowd. As Holly watched in horror, a man’s head was sliced cleanly off his body. Another’s arm was severed; blood gushed from his shoulder socket, mingling with the frigid, rising water.

  Holly looked left, right; she had no idea what to do. Other people were scrambling onto the side of the wheelhouse, tilted at a frightening angle.

  The birds dove at them, screaming.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” Amanda panted.

  “Stare into my eyes. See yourself surviving,” Holly ordered her. “See it.”

  “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” Amanda gasped. “Holly, oh, my God ...”

  “You will survive.” Holly willed her to feel it, know it.

  Then the waters rushed around them, buoying them away like tiny woodchips; they sailed end over end; Holly shut her eyes tight and held on as tightly as she could to Amanda’s hand ... to Amanda’s hand .. . to Amanda’s hand .. .

  She held on for dear life, literally, as they plunged into the black, icy waters; she held on as tightly as she could and tried to kick toward the surface. There were people all around her, grasping, kicking, punching in their terror. She couldn’t see a thing, only blackness.

  Isabeau, she thought, shifting from praying to the Goddess to begging her ancestress for help. Please, save us.

  Then miraculously, her head broke the surface. Amanda’s too; she saw it by the light of the ferry, which was sinking.

  Holly saw what was happening, but it didn’t register.

  “We need to conjure,” she said to her cousin. “We need to focus.”

  Amanda was sobbing hysterically. Holly gave up, looked around for the others.

  “Eddie? Kari?”

  “Here,” Eddie announced. “I don’t know where she is. I can’t find her.”

  “We have to conjure,” she repeated to him.

  “Kialish,” he moaned. “Kialish, I’m gonna die without saying good-bye to him.”

  “Don’t be stupid. We’re not going to die.”

  “It’s your curse, Holly. You’re cursing us to die.”

  “You’re not going to die,” she repeated.

  Fresh screams erupted from the other water-bound passengers, announcing a new horror. Holly looked over her shoulder, and that was when she lost it too.

  The humanoid creatures were swimming through the throng, raising their talons and chopping randomly into people as they went. Their talons were knife-sharp; the wounds were deep. Most of their victims stopped screaming as soon as they made contact.

  And trailing in their wake was the monster.

  Holly tried to fight down her own panic, moving down inside herself, finding a place, a center. The rest of her being panicked around it; yet she said, “I abjure thee, I repulse thee, minion of evil. Get thee hence!”

  Her words had no effect on it. It rose to a great height as if it were naturally buoyant; she saw its quivering, filthy mass, the tentacles everywhere, the mess that was its head. In its beak it carried a young woman who very quickly stopped struggling and hung limp in its grasp. It chomped her in two; her torso and head hit the water. It tossed away the other half and lumbered ahead, toward Holly.

  Eddie swam in front of her, shouting, “Get me! Get me, you bastard!”

  “Eddie, no!” It was an unnecessary gesture; if that thing wanted to kill her, it would. She waved at Eddie to stop, and Amanda’s grip slackened and went limp.

  Amanda let go of Holly’s hand, and her head slipped below the surface.

  “Amanda!” Holly shouted, and dove underwater to find her.

  It was pitch black and crowded, but a faint blue glow guided Holly directly downward. She swam as hard as she could, chasing the glow.

  Down she spiraled, and farther down; her lungs were about to explode. She reached the glow, stretched out a hand . . . and it faded and winked out.

  No! Holly thought, lunging forward, feeling the water. Other bodies bumped into her, pieces of seaweed, and what she hoped were fish.

  But of her cousin there was no sign.

  Unable to stay below the surface any longer, she rose, sucking in air as she broke the surface.

  As if by . . . magic, a life ring bobbed beside her. She grabbed it.

  And then she panicked at what she saw.

  The water was thick with blood, and one of the minion-creatures slashed at her; it was less than a foot away. Its immense companion rushed toward her—

  —game over, I’m dead—

  “Holly,” Eddie moaned.

  He floated about three feet away to her left. She began to lunge for him . . . until she realized that Amanda had resurfaced, facedown, and bobbed on the waves about five feet away in the opposite direction.

  The creatures were bearing down.

  “Holly,” Eddie said again. He looked at her, reached a hand for her. “I’m hurt.”

  There was no more time to think, to choose; with a choked sob, Holly pushed the life ring toward Amanda, looped her arm around it and yanked her head out of the water so that her chin was propped up, and began to kick as hard as she could.

  She invoked protection spell after protection spell, begging, pleading with the Goddess and with Isabeau to save her. A talon swiped at her, catching the edge of her heel, and she would have screamed if she could have remembered how. . . .

  Then gunfire erupted over her head, someone shooting from in front of her at the monsters. Someone shouting, “Here!”

  And Holly managed to look up as she fought for her own life, and for Amanda’s, swimming in her icy, sodden clothes; swimming despite the fact that she had no strength left.

  A Coast Guard cutter had roared up, followed by another, and another; there was a flotilla of them, and they were shooting at the monsters. Then one of them was throwing her another life ring, but her hands were too numb to catch it. She croaked in frustration—she could no longer speak—and then began to whimper, blinded by panic.

  She forced herself to find her calm center again. I am a Cathers witch, she thought.

  She stared down at her hands, willing them to grab the life ring. Somehow she managed to position Amanda’s cold, limp body onto the ring. She gave the line a tug.

  “Holly!” Eddie screamed.

  She turned to go back to him, but at that moment, Amanda slipped off the life ring and began to go under. Holly grabbed her, holding on to the ring.

  The Coast Guard officer began to reel them in. If she let go of Amanda, her cousin would slide back into the water.

  “Holly!” She could hear the terror in Eddie’s voice. “Holly, help!”

  She turned around; Amanda shifted on the flotation device and she grabbed hold of her.

  She couldn’t see Eddie anywhere. The water was a swarm of monsters, dying people, and the leviathan that even now moved toward her.

  The Coast Guardsman reeled her in; she sobbed as she was pulled onto the deck, as they put a blanket around her shoulders, and as a medic on board gave her something to calm her down.

  She saw that Kari had been rescued as well, and tried to be grateful for that.

  But she would not be soothed.

  Goddess, protect him, she supplicated.

  But she knew in the depths of her soul that Eddie was dead.

  France, 13th Century

  Catherine was dying. Whether through poison or magic or simple bad luck, she could not tell. But she was dying; there was no doubt.

  The Deveraux had not won; but then, neither had she. Both covens had lost untold celebrants in the massacre of Deveraux Castle on Beltane, and the resultant reprisals that went on even now, six years later.

  She called
her new protégé, Marie, to her bedside. The young girl was sixteen and a very good witch. Catherine had imbued her with magical powers, and the girl had understood her role in Coventry: At all costs, the Cahors line must be perpetuated.

  Pandion the lady hawk sat on the ornate headboard of Catherine’s bed of state. She had slept alone in it for three years, since the death of her second husband, although she had entertained more lovers in it than she could count. They, however, were not allowed to sleep the night there.

  But all that was over, and she would soon be dust.

  “So many of us are ashes now,” she said to the beautiful young girl. Curls tumbled down Marie’s back; she was very slender, and her eyes were enormous. She put Catherine in mind of Isabeau, her only child, her dear child.

  “To protect you and our coven, I am sending you away,” she told the girl. “To England. There are followers of the Circle there who will help you; you will be looked after.” She sighed. “I abandoned Jeannette, but I will not abandon you.”

  “Oui, madame,” the girl said feelingly. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I shall do as you command, in all things, always.”

  “There’s a good girl,” Catherine murmured. Then her breath snaked out of her body, and she was dead.

  Marie devoutly bowed her head and prayed to the Goddess to lead her through fields of lilies.

  “And let her find Isabeau, whom she always loved,” she finished.

  Then she clapped her hands. Servants appeared instantly, gasping aloud at the sight of their grande dame, dead in her bed.

  “She shall be burned and put in the garden,” Marie informed them.

  And I shall not be there to witness it

  I am bound for England, as my mistress wished.

  Eli Deveraux: London, Samhain

  The innocent called it Halloween.

  But in Coventry new marriages were made, old feuds forgotten . . . and sacrifices made.

  Eli Deveraux looked up with satisfaction from the grisly remains of a young woman whose still-beating heart he held in his fist. Her thick, red blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the stone floor of the ancient chamber where he wrought his magic.

  “This, my brother’s heart,” he intoned, showing the heart to the statue of the horned god, who crouched on the altar. “Help me kill him, Great God Pan. Send my familiar to do my work.”

  There was a great flapping of wings; then the immortal falcon, Fantasme, scowled at Eli and cocked his head. Eli held out the heart, and the bird glided toward it. Fantasme was not a stranger to human sacrifice.

  Another young woman, this one very much alive, entered the private chamber and inclined her head. She was dressed in a gossamer robe, and she was here to be his Lady to the Lord, so that he could perform some very high-level magics. He had recruited her to help him during a ritual with Sir William in attendance; Eli was certain she had agreed not because she wanted to, but because she was afraid to refuse him.

  “Undress,” he said coldly. He wasn’t sure why he disliked her now, but he did. He had looked forward to their coupling, which would produce the potent magical energy he required.

  I’m just in a bad mood, he told himself Learning that Jer is alive has put me in a funk. I thought I was rid of him, and now . . . he’s like a bad penny.

  At least he’s in terrible pain and hideously scarred.

  Proving that there is a God.

  The girl stood undressed. In a voice dripping with hostility, Eli said, “Get ready.”

  She lay on the altar, waiting for him.

  Why did she say yes? he wondered. Is it some kind of trap?

  And then it didn’t matter as he joined her on the altar; he knew then that she had consented because he did something for her. A lot of women liked Eli Deveraux, liked his aura of menace, all that power . . .

  That cheered him up a little.

  Blue magic began to churn in the room, sweeping over the altar, shining along Eli’s athame and the girl’s robe. The room began to dance with it. The gray statue’s eyes glowed blue; its mouth turned up in a smile.

  When it was done, Eli felt stronger, more concentrated, and more focused. Pulling on a green robe decorated with red clusters of holly berries, he picked up the heart again and said, “My lord, I offer this to you, if you will only kill my brother.”

  The stone jaw of the statue dropped open; the neck extended forward, the eyes rolled downward. In strange, lockstep motions, the statue plucked up the heart, and silently devoured it.

  The girl watched in startled fascination.

  I’ll take that as a yes, Eli thought. He was overjoyed.

  My God is going to kill my brother.

  So it’s a happy Halloween after all.

  SIX

  HUNGER MOON

  Cahors witches best beware

  As we take to the air

  We will kill them where they stand

  Everywhere throughout the land

  Now we chew upon each bone

  Granted us by the Crone

  We shall feast with next moon rise

  On our victim as he slowly dies

  Nicole: Spain, All Hallow’s Eve

  They had been in the safe house for a week. This particular night, Nicole was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. When a hand on her shoulder shook her gently awake, it was dark. Philippe stood beside her, smiling faintly. “Come on. Time to get up.”

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Nearly midnight.”

  “The witching hour?” She smiled.

  He laughed low. “You could say that.”

  He was again dressed in his cloak, but the hood was folded back behind his head. He held out a cloak to her as she sat up. “You can put this on.”

  She grimaced. “What I’d really like are some clean clothes.”

  He gestured to the foot of her bed where she saw a shirt and a folded up pair of jeans. “There is a young lady at the villa who is about the same size as you. She donated some clothing.”

  “Was this your idea?” she asked, surprised.

  “Actually it was José Luís’s,” he conceded. “Come, hurry, ma belle. Everyone else is outside; come out when you’re dressed.”

  ”Merci, Philippe.”

  Nicole sat up as soon as he left. She spied a water pitcher and a basin on a small table and gratefully discovered that the pitcher had been freshly filled. She peeled off her shirt and splashed some water over her face and shoulders.

  She put on the clothes and was pleased to find that they were only a little loose. She ran her fingers through her hair and winced as she tried to pull out the tangles. She must look a fright. If Amanda could see me now, she wouldn’t believe it. It was a far cry from her days as a beauty queen.

  She grimaced as she put on the cloak. The material was thick and course. She lifted the hood up over her head to test the feel. She shuddered slightly as the material engulfed her. Quickly she folded the hood back.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door. Outside the five warlocks stood in a loose cluster looking like ghosts in the darkness. As one they turned toward her, the gentle murmur of conversation ceased. She stepped among them, her heart beginning to pound. Dressed as they were it was impossible not to feel a sense of connection, of belonging.

  Someone had brought the car up close, and they all piled in except for Armand. As Philippe started the engine, Nicole gestured to the lone figure outside.

  “Isn’t he coming with us?”

  Philippe shook his head. “He will rejoin us soon. For now he has to wipe out the memory of us from this place.”

  At her look of slight confusion, Alonzo explained, “Have you ever been someplace where you could feel the history, as though the walls were speaking to you?”

  She nodded slowly. “I felt that once. My family went to Washington, D.C., to see some old friends. They took us to see the Ford Theatre where President Lincoln was shot. I felt as though if I closed my eyes I could see it all happening.
Is that what you mean?”

  “Sí. People and events leave their imprint upon places. The walls of a building, for instance, record on a psychic level the events that happen within them. It is just like a path in a forest where animals and people leave footprints. The average person never sees these marks, but to an experienced tracker they are clear and reveal much about the creatures that left them.

  “In the same way the average person never senses the psychic imprints left on places unless those imprints are unusually strong, and then they often claim that the place has history or is haunted. To a trained tracker, though—”

  “The psychic imprints we leave behind are as easily read as tracks on a trail,” Nicole finished.

  “Yes. Armand is staying behind to cover the traces of our passage, much as though he were scraping a branch along the ground and obliterating footprints.”

  Nicole shivered. “If he weren’t, could someone really find us that way?”

  “I could,” Pablo answered quietly.

  Nicole twisted in the front seat so she could look back at the boy. His eyes shone in the darkness.

  “That you could,” Philippe affirmed. “So, Armand will catch up with us when he’s finished.”

  “Armand is good at blocking. I can’t read him,” Pablo said.

  She continued to stare at the boy as she thought, Unlike me?

  He smiled slowly and he looked like a wolf baring its teeth.

  Nicole turned back around. She would have to have a talk with Armand later.

  They drove in what seemed a winding and circuitous fashion for two hours, skirting at least one village. They pulled off the road and drove for a few more miles. When they finally stopped it was in a large flat field. There were no structures of any kind in view.

  “We have several hours yet before dawn. We will wait here for Armand, and when he joins us we will have the ceremony,” José Luís announced.

  From the trunk of the car the others pulled out firewood and several packets of what looked like herbs. As they began laying the wood out in preparation for a fire, Nicole turned to Philippe.