Witch & Curse

by Nancy Holder

  Uncle Richard hurried across the threshold of the conference room as the ever-helpful woman in bright scrubs pointed the four out to him. His face was radiant with relief; he looked more alive than Holly had seen him since Aunt Marie-Claire’s death.

  “Daddy!” Amanda cried, and raced toward him.

  “I think we should go to their house,” Kari said, and Tommy nodded. “Richard won’t want Amanda to go out again, and I sure as hell don’t want to hold Circle at my place.”

  Holly nodded, agreeing.

  Tante Cecile pulled her cell phone out of her purse and punched in a number. She waited, murmuring, “Come on, Sylvie, pick up. Ah.” She brightened. “Sylvie, it’s Mom. Listen—”

  She caught her breath, her eyes widening. Then she gasped. “No,” she whispered. “No!”

  Holly grabbed the phone out of her hand and pressed it against her ear.

  “If you want to see her again, you’ll give up Holly to me,” a voice was saying.

  Michael. He’s kidnapped Silvana.

  Tante Cecile sought refuge in Kari’s arms, who, though not a warm person, enfolded her in a strong embrace and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Do you have Kialish, too?” Holly demanded.

  “Oh, no,” Kari whispered. “He’s kidnapped them?”

  Tante Cecile shut her eyes tightly and began to chant in French.

  “Why, Ms. Cathers, how nice to hear your voice,” said Michael with syrupy sarcasm. “Of course I have Kialish, too. Do you know where his father is? Because I’ve tried repeatedly to reach him.”

  “Where do you want to make the exchange?” she said flatly.

  Tante Cecile stopped chanting; Kari whispered, “No, you can’t do that,” but Holly saw the flicker in her eye that said, Maybe you should, Holly. Maybe that would be payback for Jer.

  “On the water, of course,” Michael said, obviously relishing his position.

  “When?”

  “I would say two nights hence.”

  “Why not sooner?” Holly asked.

  “Patience, Holly.” He chuckled. “Oh, and . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I probably won’t give them back to you alive.”

  Then he hung up.

  Holly and Amanda had still not clued in Uncle Richard, and when the group converged on their house he was unhappy about it. He wanted his daughter and his niece home alone with him, and safe.

  After a few minutes of settling in, Tante Cecile wove a spell on him, making him very sleepy. Then she sent him upstairs to go to bed.

  Once he was out of the way, she turned to the others.

  “We are in a state of siege,” Tante Cecile said as she plaited her hair into corn rows, adding beads of silver and turquoise.

  The cats patrolled outside, the trio of Cathers witch familiars moving with boldness and stealth. Amanda and Holly had begun to understand what familiars could do, and what they were: magical extensions of a witch’s abilities and intentions—confidantes, in a subverbal way, and companions.

  As the familiar of a witch who had abandoned her coven, Hecate hung back, deferring slightly to the others. She also tried harder: since then, she hunted birds on the grounds of the Anderson mansion and rodents in their basement with the fervor of a crusader in the Holy Land.

  Bast, the familiar of the pivotal witch of the family, reappeared in the living room as if to announce that the perimeter was secured.

  It was then that Tante Cecile looked first at her, and then at Holly. Her face clouded; she turned away once, then turned back.

  “Holly, in the kitchen?” she asked.

  Holly followed her.

  Tante Cecile leaned up against the island in the center of the kitchen and said, “You need to feed the water, child. Your magic will be stronger.”

  “I’m sorry?” Holly asked, as a chill broke out along her shoulders and up and down her spine. “What do you mean?”

  Tante Cecile hesitated. “In the old days, in many religions, there were . . . sacrifices.”

  “Yes,” Holly breathed. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Giving something to the water means that you sacrifice it . . . by water.”

  Holly waited, not getting it. Bast began to weave in and out of her legs, purring and flicking her tail.

  “You drown them,” Tante Cecile said.

  The voudon glanced down at Bast, who mewed sweetly at her, then returned to her business of stroking her mistress with her tail.

  NINE

  NINTH MOON

  Nothing now can block our path

  The world trembles at our wrath

  Murder, kidnap, torture, and lies

  Dark hearts beneath darker skies

  Crying now within the night

  Waiting for the moon’s great light

  Maiden whispers low and still

  Commanding us to go and kill

  Holly: Seattle, November

  Holly couldn’t kill Bast.

  So she killed Hecate instead.

  She put it from her mind as she did it—the way the beautiful cat stared up at her as she placed her in the bathtub . . .

  . . . the way she struggled.

  It was as if Holly wasn’t really there. She shut herself down completely, neither seeing, nor hearing—not feeling anything. From a hard, dark place in the center of her being, she took the life of Nicole’s cat and offered it to darker spirits than she had ever called upon before.

  They answered; the act allowed them access, and their presence swept a cold wind through her bones and her heart. From head to toe she was chilled, frightened, and ashamed; she had done something she could never take back, on her knees beside the tub in the darkened bathroom, with one single black candle for company.

  Outside the house, Bast and Freya threw back their heads and screamed in fury and despair; they would have wakened the dead, but they could not awaken Amanda and the others, because Holly had put them all into a deep, dreamless sleep. The cats flung themselves at the front door, and at the ground floor windows, livid with her, begging her to stop. Her face a cipher, her heart a stone, she gave to the water something precious, demanding—not asking—the Dark Ones to protect her coven and give her the strength to save Kialish and Silvana.

  When it was over, she was different, and she knew she would never be the same again. Her gaze was steadier, her smile less sweet. Ambition and determination had supplanted her goodness; now she had purpose and passion, but she wasn’t certain that she was still lovable.

  After Hecate was dead, Holly stumbled into her heavily warded bedroom and slept for thirteen hours.

  Amanda told her later that she had tried every spell she knew of to awaken her, finally asking Kari and Tommy to go to Kari’s for some books she had there, and asking Dan to come and help her and Tante Cecile.

  The shaman and the voudon had known instantly what she had done, but they didn’t tell Amanda. All they told her was to do nothing and let Holly rest.

  Holly’s dreams were troubled, boiling over with flames and dark waters, monsters that swam out of the chambers of her heart and demons devouring her soul. She dreamed of her parents, waterlogged and dead; she dreamed of Barbara Davis-Chin, still in the hospital and near death. Everyone she loved was cut off from her by a barrier of shiny obsidian black; everyone she hated was pointing at her and laughing.

  Then Hecate stared at her from beneath the dirt that Holly had heaped over her in the backyard, the cat whispering, You crossed the line with my death; you are doomed.

  Over and over the words spilled across her body and crept through her mind: You sold your soul. . . .

  When Holly awoke, Amanda was standing beside her bed in tears, and a woman with blue-black hair and almond-shaped eyes stood beside her. She was dressed all in black, from a velour turtleneck sweater to a pair of black wool pants. Her skin was very pale and she had on very subtle makeup. Her earrings were silver crescent moons.

  Startled to find a stranger in her room, Holly rais
ed herself on one elbow.

  Amanda blurted, “Holly, how could you!”

  The other woman put a hand on Amanda’s arm and said softly, “Amanda, would you get us some tea?”

  Amanda frowned, then bobbed her head and dashed from the room.

  The woman regarded Holly for a moment. Then she sighed, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

  Without preamble, she said bluntly, “You crossed the line.”

  Holly licked her lips. She was thirsty and still muzzy with sleep. She raked her curls out of her face and sat up against the headboard.

  “Who are you?” she asked the woman.

  “I’m from the Mother Coven,” she told her. “I’m Anne-Louise Montrachet.”

  Holly looked down at her hands, which were trembling. “No one from the Mother Coven has ever contacted us before,” Holly said. “Whatever it is.”

  “We are a very old and prominent confederation of covens,” she informed her. “We were founded in response to the Supreme Coven.” She regarded Holly sternly. “The Deveraux are very prominent within their ranks.”

  Holly raised her eyes, hopeful that help had come at last. She said, “How do we join up?”

  Anne-Louise shrugged. “Your family has always been a member coven since we were founded. We . . . we regret that we did not contact you sooner.” She blanched. “Our resources have been stretched.”

  “We’ve been fighting for our lives,” Holly told her simply. “And we haven’t been entirely successful.”

  Anne-Louise nodded. “Our condolences on your losses.” She crossed her arms and legs and added, “All of them, including the death of the familiar, Hecate.”

  Holly reddened. Then she lifted her chin and said, “Two of my covenates have been kidnapped by Michael Deveraux. I would give anything to get them back.”

  “We have standards. We have limits,” Anne-Louise admonished. “We do not sacrifice coven members, including familiars.”

  Holly moved her hands. “I didn’t know—”

  “We have always had problems with you Cahors,” Anne-Louise cut in. “You’re unpredictable. You’re ruthless.”

  “Until a year ago, I didn’t even know I was a witch,” Holly protested.

  “Witch blood runs in your veins,” Anne-Louise cut in, gesturing to her. “Most witches would have been unable to sacrifice a familiar. They would have felt the wrongness of it.” She made a fist and placed it over her heart.

  “Well, it was wrong of you guys to leave us alone to face Michael Deveraux,” Holly said. “I have to go to the bathroom. And I’m dying of thirst.”

  “Amanda won’t be back. Not until I unward your doorway,” the woman said. “And you will sit there and listen—”

  Holly glared at her. The woman raised her chin. For a few seconds they had a standoff Then the woman sighed heavily.

  “Very well. You aren’t my prisoner.”

  Saying nothing, Holly slid off the bed and walked unsteadily to the door. Truth was, she was shocked that there was such a thing as a Mother Coven to whom she was supposed to answer. And shocked, too, that they had left her and the others to twist in the wind for so long without backup.

  But do something they don’t like, and they’re here in a hot minute.

  She went into the bathroom and did her thing, then padded back to her room. The woman was standing and gathering her things: a black shawl, an overnight bag, and a purse.

  “You’re leaving?” Holly asked. “Aren’t you going to help us with Michael Deveraux?”

  “Yes. I am,” Anne-Louise said in a clipped voice. “I’ve taken a room at a hotel, and I need to marshal my own powers. Alone,” she added pointedly. “I don’t want him to realize I’m here. I want him to assume you’re still on your own.”

  Holly wasn’t sure what to think about that. She said, “But you’re helping, right?”

  The woman hesitated. “As much as we can,” she replied.

  Holly crossed her arms and looked hard at the other witch. “You’re afraid of him.”

  “Any wise witch is.”

  Holly could practically read her thoughts.

  “You didn’t want to come here. You asked not to.”

  The woman inclined her head. “That’s also true.” She cleared her throat. “I’m going to check in and perform my ritual. I’ll get in touch in about six hours.”

  “We have about a day,” Holly pointed out. “He said I had until the full moon.” To save them?

  To die?

  The woman exhaled and slung her bag over her shoulder. She began to walk to Holly’s door. “I’ll be in touch.” She added, in a weak tone of voice, “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Pardon me for saying it, but your best sucks,” Holly flung at her.

  The woman turned her back to Holly and walked out of the room. She murmured something and made a gesture with her hand.

  Amanda raced into the room, ignoring the witch. Holly realized Anne-Louise had cloaked herself with invisibility.

  “I hate you, Holly!” she shouted. “I hate you for killing Hecate! How could you do that?”

  Holly didn’t have time to be kind. “If it could have saved Eddie, would you have killed Hecate?”

  Amanda’s mouth dropped. Holly pressed her advantage.

  “Michael Deveraux is planning to kill Silvana and Kialish. He’ll come after us next. Don’t you think Hecate’s death is worth it?”

  Speechless, Amanda simply stared at her. Holly felt sick to her soul, and mean, and unlovable.

  But she also felt strong.

  This bears watching, Michael Deveraux thought, as he spied on Holly with a scrying stone from deep within the chamber of spells in his house in Lower Queen Anne, a neighborhood of Seattle.

  His imp capered about the room, chattering at the skulls placed on the altar, laughing with mad glee as he glanced into the scrying stone, then darting away, his attention seized by some other object in the room.

  Michael had witnessed her sacrifice of the familiar, which he had found both startling and delightful. I didn’t realize she had it in her to do something like that. She’s far more blackhearted than I thought.

  He had also heard and seen her side of the conversation with the witch from the Mother Coven; the witch’s side of the meeting had been hidden from him. But he knew what that meddler wanted; she was telling Holly to toe the party line: no deaths among the good guys. But waste all the bad guys you want.

  When Holly had pretty much told her to go to hell, he had silently applauded.

  I wonder if I’ve underestimated her, he thought. Maybe I can turn her to the darker side. In thrall to me . . . or to jer, if he regains his sanity. Her union with the Deveraux Coven would assure my rise to power in the Supreme Coven.

  No sooner had he thought those words, than he smelled the stench that often presaged the arrival of Laurent, Duc de Deveraux, and his ancestor.

  Sure enough, as Michael knelt in humble obeisance, the moldering corpse that was his ancestor stepped off Charon’s boat as it glided into being in the center of the room. Sulfur mixed with the gut-churning odor of decomposition, telling of the hellfires Laurent had left in order to make the voyage back among the living.

  “Laurent, it’s been so long since you have made yourself known to me,” Michael said. “I have wonderful news. I have two captives, and it looks as though I’ll be luring Holly of the Cahors to her death.”

  “You liar,” Laurent said in medieval French. He backhanded Michael, sending him sprawling to the floor. “You are thinking of sparing her. Cochon. Don’t think it. The entire House must be wiped away from this world and all worlds.”

  His cheek throbbed as if he’d been branded. Laurent advanced on him, menace in every step.

  “You want the Black Fire again, don’t you? You want to rule the Supreme Coven. Then you had better kill the witch or you will never be able to conjure it again.”

  Michael took that in. His heart pounding, he tried to summon his dignity—and his cou
rage—as he got to his feet.

  “Then I’ll kill her,” he said calmly.

  Anne-Louise had been a practicing witch from the time she learned to speak. She had grown up in the Mother Coven, a ward of it. Her parents had been killed shortly after she was born, so the coven had been both Mother and Father to her.

  In her hotel room she meditated, gathering her strength. The coven had sent her because wards were her magical specialty. Diplomacy was her mundane one. Although, one would not have guessed that, given her confrontation with Holly. She shuddered. Being near the younger witch had been an unpleasant experience. Drowning the familiar had tainted her. The evil coming off of her was terrible to feel.

  Two tears slid slowly down her cheek. The first was for the familiar, Hecate. The second was for the witch Nicole, whose cat Hecate had been. Anne-Louise prayed to the Goddess that their fates would not be the same.

  She took several cleansing breaths trying to regain her focus. She was tired from the long flight and the encounter with Holly. Additionally the ward she had set at the top of the stairs when she left the house had just about drained her. The deep breaths helped refocus her attention, and she resumed her meditations putting the Cahors witch from her mind. Cahors were always such trouble.

  London, 1640

  “Kill her,” Luc Deveraux whispered as he watched the proceedings. He had been tracking Cassandra Cahors ever since he had arranged for her mother, Barbara, to be burned at the stake. Now finally Cassandra would die as well and by another fine witch-hunter’s tradition.

  Dunking.

  Onlookers gathered at the water’s edge while the witch-finders in charge of her case spread across London Bridge to watch her drown, and drown she would. The commonly held belief was that witches floated. So, a woman accused of witchcraft was often thrown into a small body of water to see if she floated. The only way to prove that one was innocent was to drown and die. Much good innocence did for one.

  Of course the common superstitions were all wrong. Witches didn’t float. Cassandra Cahors would drown and everyone would believe she had been innocent of witchcraft. Nothing could be further from the truth.