Witch & Curse

by Nancy Holder

  He smiled, savoring the irony.

  Tied to the ducking stool, she struggled beneath the water, then was pulled up in case she wished to make a confession. She looked like a drowned cat, all huge eyes, her hair beneath her mob cap plastered to her head. She was wearing down; her breath was very labored, and he was overjoyed.

  Cassandra was dying, and as she looked out at the crowd, all the fires of hell burned in her eyes.

  “I curse you, all of you!” she shouted. “You shall all drown, every one of you! As I die, so shall you.”

  Luc waved his hand and whispered a few incantations. He changed the spell, twisting it back toward Cassandra. At last he smiled triumphantly. “No, Cassandra. But all who love your descendants shall. I curse your house for all time.

  “The loved ones of Cahors shall die by drowning.”

  Michael and Laurent: Seattle, November

  Laurent, the mighty duke of the House of Deveraux, watched his descendant Michael attempting to hide his fear as he got to his feet, and his entire being flooded with rage. To see my house reduced to this: a modern-day play-boy who tries to play the game as the Cahors did. . . .

  Laurent possessed a ferocity and passion that, quite literally, had taken him beyond the grave. Catherine of the Cahors, his rival in life, had not managed to make that transition, and she spun through the universe as ashes.

  Jean was dead because of them. True dead.

  I will not have this. I have found the living Cahors witch, and I will see her dead.

  Thus far, he had only been able to appear to Michael and to touch only him. But as he stood livid and furious, he felt strength rushing through his being.

  Energy crackled around and through him; his head snapped back, and it was as if lightning had jolted through him.

  Michael’s eyes widened, and the duke realized that something was happening to himself; he glanced down at his hands and watched the gray, rotten flesh drop from his bones and soft new skin appear. He touched his face; the same thing was happening there.

  In large clumps, his old body fell away.

  He was becoming a man again—vigorous, filled with life.

  At last. At last!

  “Whoa,” Michael whispered, impressed. Michael’s imp chittered and pointed, leaping about the room.

  “Did I not tell you that I would come back to this plane a full man?” Laurent chided Michael, although his heart was overflowing with shock. He had not realized it would ever really happen.

  He took a step forward, and another. His ancient clothing fell away, leaving him naked.

  He said to his many-times-great-grandson, “Fetch me clothing.”

  Michael raced off to do as he was told, his imp bounding after him.

  Then Laurent closed his eyes and raised his arm; he whispered, “Fantasme.”

  The great falcon took shape and weight as he landed on the arm of his lord and master. His bells tinkled; he screeched softly.

  Laurent opened his eyes and looked fondly at the bird.

  “Ma coeur,” he said. “My heart. Come with me, my beauty, and we’ll hunt as we once did.”

  The bird cawed in reply.

  Michael returned with clothing for him—a black sweater, black trousers, boots—and Laurent savored the sensation of fresh, new attire on his new body. He realized he was hungry. But that hunger would have to wait.

  He had a witch to kill.

  He strode past Michael, who called, “Where are you going?”

  “To do your work,” he flung over his shoulder, not even breaking stride.

  His strong thighs propelled him up the stairs. He hesitated, unsure of his bearings, when the falcon lifted from his arm and fluttered down a corridor. Within a minute Fantasme had shown Laurent the way to the front entrance of the Deveraux home.

  He moved his wrist and the door opened. As he crossed the threshold, he was tempted to turn the entire house into a raging inferno, be done with Michael Deveraux once and for all. But he reminded himself that, after all, Michael was a strong warlock who knew his family’s proud history and longed to restore the family honor.

  He’s not all bad, Laurent thought.

  He’s just not me.

  The moon was nigh full as its beams glowed over him. Michael was right to set the meeting with Holly Cathers on the full moon, which was on the morrow. His power would be greater for killing her then.

  But Laurent was not going to wait that long.

  He snapped his fingers and shouted, ”Magnifique!”

  Clouds roiled and scudded over the yellow moon, and stars blinked and shuddered. An arc of flame shot across the sky, and upon it, the mighty hooves of Laurent’s warhorse, Magnifique, took form. They were followed by his legs and then his body. Flames shot from his nostrils, his mane, and his tail, and he cantered down from the sky to the ground, stomped his left foot, and dipped his head to Laurent.

  “By the Horned One, I have missed you,” Laurent said fervently. Then he climbed on the back of the horse, sans saddle. Fantasme rode on his shoulder, and the trio galloped down the streets of Michael’s town, Seattle.

  The skies cracked open and rain poured down. Steam rose off Magnifique’s heavily muscled body, and Laurent threw back his head and laughed. Then he put his heels to the horse and they picked up speed, until the warhorse’s hooves made the street sizzle and melt.

  Fantasme showed the way; the dark lord of the Deveraux rode for hours; and then . . .

  . . . he stood before the house where the witch resided.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he galloped up the walkway toward the porch.

  He fully expected there to be wards, and he conjured as he rode, breaking each one as he did so. He was surprised when he had disabled them all, expecting more fight in the young woman, and with a wave of his hand, flung open the door. Magnifique trotted inside.

  He smelled smoke and remembered the night Michael had attempted to conjure the Black Fire through the sacrifice of Marie-Claire, the lady of this house. How livid Laurent had been that night! Michael had disobeyed him, putting that lady in thrall to himself—that minor Cahors witch, that adversary—after Laurent had expressly forbidden it.

  He had materialized here and cuffed Michael, and hated him for his duplicity.

  But would I respect a man who did not push, take chances? When has obedience mattered to the Deveraux? I would rather he take the initiative and accomplish great things than allow fear of me to limit him.

  He raced through the living room. The hot winds of anger rose with him; Magnifique’s body sizzled and burned from the speed at which he ran. Laurent reveled in all the sensations, and he laughed in anticipation of what he was going to do to that little witch, either carry her off and kill her slowly, or allow Magnifique to trample her as she ran.

  He started up the stairs and—

  —was blocked.

  A powerful ward shimmered between him and the top of the stairway. Roses shimmered in it, and lilies, suspended as if in crystal.

  He lips curled back in utter hatred. He changed spells and created from his hands an enormous fireball, which he lobbed at the ward.

  Nothing he did had any effect.

  The Mother Coven has been here. This is one of their wards.

  He urged Magnifique on; the horse reared, as frustrated as his master. His large hooves slammed at the barrier, the magical energy shocking them both. Magnifique reared again and again, coming down hard on the ward. It would not give. Fantasme struck at it with claws and beak, and still it remained intact and in place.

  And then, standing inside the barrier, a woman’s shape shimmered and blurred. She looked at him with eyes he knew, with a sneer he knew too well. . . .

  She lives on. I had not known that.

  That threw him . . . but he found his composure as he regarded the ghostly image of his dead daughter-in-law.

  “Isabeau,” he proclaimed, “get thee hence. I abjure you!”

  Her image wobbled but did not fade. She
was staring at him with the same degree of hatred he felt for her. Tearing her apart with his teeth would be too good for her.

  “You murdered my heir,” he said to her. “It’s only just that I take the life of the Cahors descendant.”

  She made no reply, but a strange smile ghosted across her lips, then was gone.

  She raised a hand and pointed toward the front door, contemptuously dismissing him.

  Laurent clapped his hands three times . . .

  . . . and he, Magnifique, and Fantasme were magically transported back to Michael’s chamber of spells.

  Michael looked startled, but the two young people who lay tied up on the floor were terrified. The girl began to scream; the young man closed his eyes and began to chant. Laurent felt his attempt to send him back into the ether as a mild tickle across his sternum.

  He dismounted and slapped the horse on the hindquarters. Fantasme perched on his shoulder, then glided over the two prone figures, screeching in anticipation. The bird had been taught to love tidbits of human flesh.

  “You couldn’t get to her,” Michael guessed.

  Laurent nearly hit him again for embarrassing him in front of mere captives, but he put his hands on his hips. He said, “The Mother Coven is here. Did you know that?”

  Michael exhaled with contempt. “Who cares? A bunch of withered old nuns who are ineffectual at best.”

  “Tomorrow, the witch dies,” Laurent ordered him, trying another tack. He smiled evilly at the two on the floor. “So you might as well kill them now.”

  “She’s a voudon; he’s a shaman. I’ll get more power tomorrow if I kill them on the full moon.”

  “Very well,” Laurent said, conceding the point. Then he touched his stomach and said, “I want to eat.”

  Michael nodded. “I’ll take you upstairs and make you a steak.”

  They went upstairs.

  Jer: Avalon, November

  It was a freezing cold day, and Jer was starving. Healing took a lot of energy. James had jumpstarted the process, but it was far from over. He was still horribly scarred.

  Bundled in a pea coat, a blanket over his knees, he sat on a stone bench and looked out to sea. He wondered what Holly was doing; if she dreamed of him. He would be surprised if she didn’t. He knew that in his dreams, he called out to her.

  I have to try harder not to do that. I will he the death of her.

  There was a soft pad of footsteps. Jer looked up to see one of the servants cautiously approaching with a silver tray. Silver covered dishes gleamed on its surface.

  Jer signaled for her to come closer. She was afraid of him, whether because he was a powerful warlock or because he was so horrible-looking, he had no idea.

  He said to her, “What do you want to know today?”

  She was shy; she said, “How to find money”

  “All right.”

  She handed him the tray. They had a deal going. She told him any news she heard, and in return, he taught her simple spells.

  “What do you have for me?” he asked her.

  “James is back,” she said. “He’s got a girl with him. A witch.”

  That caught his attention. His hair stood on end; his cheeks grew hot as he wondered, Have they taken Holly?

  “What’s her name?” he demanded.

  She cocked her head. “I want to learn how to find money and how to make someone I hate lose her glasses.”

  On any other day, he might have laughed. But today he said, ”What is her name?” He lifted a finger and pointed it at her, an ominous threat.

  She backed up. “Nicole.”

  Holly’s cousin. She used to date my brother.

  This could not be good.

  He nodded and said, “Okay. I’ll teach you. But first . . .” He took the cover off one of the dishes and smiled appreciatively. Fish and chips. He loved them.

  He picked up a fry and began to pop it in his mouth when a terrible smell hit his nose. He froze, staring down at the fry.

  Green energy shimmered around it, and its manifest aspect was that of a shriveled piece of rotting garbage.

  Poison, he realized. From Eli . . . or James?

  The girl watched him; she was curious, but there was no sign about her that she knew she had brought him food designed to harm him, if not kill him.

  He put it back down. He looked at her and said, “Get me something else. Something you’ve had some of.”

  Her eyes widened at the implication.

  Without another word, she took the tray and hurried away, as if she was afraid he would blame her.

  He stared out to sea.

  Nicole’s with James. Are they upping the stakes, trying to get Holly to come here, to Avalon?

  “Don’t do it,” he said aloud. “Holly, don’t.”

  TEN

  STRAWBERRY MOON

  Catch them now as they run

  Kill the moon with the sun

  We will take what they won’t give

  Cahors die so Deyeraux live

  Try to fight the sun god’s power

  Call on Goddess every hour

  Fight them, kill them, don’t give in

  House Meraux must not win

  Seattle, November

  In her hotel off Pioneer Square, Anne-Louise snapped wide awake. She lay still for a moment, allowing her memories of the past day to flood back in. One of her wards was under assault. It was the one she had placed in Holly’s home. She closed her eyes, feeling the ward, feeling the energy assaulting it. Who was it? It was a Deveraux. Michael? No. She gasped and reached for her cell phone.

  London, September, 1666

  Giselle Cahors paced before the altar in the great house that was home to the Mother Coven in London. She was skeptical of the High Priestess’s decision to move the Temple from Paris to this place, and not shy to state her opinion on it.

  “London is barely large enough to hide one coven, much less two,” Giselle observed.

  “What would you have us do, child? Abandon the city to the Supreme Coven?” the High Priestess of the Mother Coven asked, raising her brows.

  Giselle stopped pacing and put her hand on the carved folds of the wooden wall panel as she touched the athame tucked in the girdle of her full, black skirts.

  “No, Priestess. I would have us destroy the Supreme Coven, not try to dwell in its stated territory.”

  “And with its destruction, destroy your Deveraux enemies?” The High Priestess sat back in her curved-back chair and folded her arms over her chest. She looked so like a nun, in her white wimple and robes, that Giselle had to remind herself that they were of the same tradition. “Is your concern for the Mother Coven or for your own house?”

  “For both,” Giselle protested.

  The woman cocked her head. “My child, if your loyalties are divided, then you are not to be trusted. The strength of your purpose must outweigh the call of your blood. We shall fight the Supreme Coven in our own time on our own terms. When our power grows to surpass theirs, then we can rid the world of their evil.”

  Evil. The word flowed silkily off the older woman’s tongue, and Giselle could not help but shiver. Standing there in the inner sanctum, she stared at the altar and the blood stains on the floor all around it. It was a fine line that divided the Mother Coven’s evil from that of the Supreme Coven.

  “Very well, ma mère” Giselle bit off. “I will be the coven’s obedient daughter.”

  “There’s a good girl,” the High Priestess said patronizingly. She reached out her arms to receive a ritual embrace. “Now, leave us. We have much to do.”

  With a hot heart, Giselle embraced her, dipped her head, and left the room.

  This may have been a mistake, she thought.

  Realizing she could not battle the entire Deveraux family alone, she had joined the newly formed Mother Coven, which was made up of witches who claimed to practice “whiter” magic than those of the more powerful Supreme Coven. Over the last few months Giselle had been given reason to ques
tion that claim.

  Still, the leadership of the Mother Coven said all the proper things about the superiority of white magic and made all the appropriate gestures to Coventry at large. To hear them, it was she who was the problem, she who was the bloodthirsty one. It was her Cahors blood that was tainted and evil and to be reigned in.

  For the thousandth time she wondered what her grandmother, Barbara, had been like, and if she, Giselle, would have a different view of magic had the older witch lived to influence her offspring.

  Thanks to Luc Deveraux she would never know the answer. He had been responsible for her grandmother being burned at the stake and for her own mother’s life of running and hiding before he had finally caught her and had Cassandra Cahors drowned. He thought he had finally succeeded in wiping them out and had risen through the ranks of the Supreme Coven based on that accomplishment.

  He didn’t know that one Cahors still eluded him.

  He would, though, soon enough.

  She had seen him in her scrying stones. He was near. For weeks she had read the signs. They all pointed to the next few days. If she was to finally kill Luc Deveraux, she might never have a better opportunity.

  Despite what she promised the High Priestess, she did not intend to let this chance pass her by.

  I’ve made a few close friends among the other covenates, she thought as she strode down the corridor and away from the inner sanctum. They might aid me in the coming battle.

  Luc Deveraux was older than he looked. Some shred of vanity prodded him to maintain his appearance. The magic kept his body alive, and with a little effort he could look well when he chose. His family had grown even more powerful under his tutelage, and their alliance with the Supreme Coven had only brought them more power. Within a couple of generations they might even be leading it.

  Only the House of Moore posed a threat. The warlocks of that family seemed to grow more powerful by the day. House Deveraux needed to be focused in order to outwit House Moore and claim the throne of the coven, the seat of power. House Deveraux could suffer no distractions, no barriers. He had systematically removed all that he could think of. All but one.

  She thinks I don’t know about her, he thought, but I do. I have always known about her.