Legacy & Spellbound

by Nancy Holder

  Now, nothing.

  Michael didn’t know if Laurent had anything to do with the failure, if the phantom warlock was blocking it or had withdrawn his influence in some way. He did know that Laurent was as interested as he was in having a Deveraux ascend the throne of skulls in London.

  He also knew Laurent did not particularly care if the victor was Michael himself, one of Michael’s sons, or another Deveraux who had not yet been born. Time was on the side of the phantom, and he was a patient and cunning creature—so unlike Jean, his son, who had been so rash and impetuous.

  As Michael watched, the mists swirled around a figure that slowly gained mass and solidity. Laurent’s skeleton appeared first, and then bits of muscle; when Michael had first begun working with his ancestor, Laurent could only appear to him as a desiccated corpse. But now he had amassed enough life energy to walk the earth again in the guise of a vigorous and very formidable man.

  He did so now, wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, he towered over Michael, very much a Deveraux with dark hair and eyes and beard, and looked with humor on his living kinsman as he said, “You’re alone here in Seattle. They’ve all run off to London to see the Queen.”

  “Yes. This is ridiculous,” Michael pouted. “I’m wasting my time …”

  And then his words trailed off as Laurent raised his hands and clapped them together twice.

  In the distance, the answering screech of a falcon heralded magic in the air.

  As the silvery clouds drifted away from the moon, the silhouette of an enormous bird cut across the glowing sphere; the flapping of the wings made the snow flutter and the wind blow. A huge, proud creature, its wings swept silently up, down, as it drew near the widow’s walk.

  On its back rode Michael’s imp, the one who had revealed to him the Curse of the Cahors—that those they loved would die by water. As it spied Michael it threw up its hands and laughed maniacally, as it was wont to do. Its chattering teeth gleamed in the moonlight; its pointed ears stood up like two feathers on either side of its head.

  The bird was Fantasme, spirit-familiar of the Deveraux, and as it swooped toward the walk, the imp slid off its back and landed on the wooden railing.

  “Where have you been?” Michael demanded. He had thought the creature was down in his chamber of spells, where he kept it.

  “Holly Cathersss has taken your ssson from Headquartersss,” the imp said. “No Jer Deveraux tonight, no Black Fire tonight.” It rubbed its taloned fingers together, its repulsive, leathery face drawn back with glee. “Now we bring her back! Now we kill her!”

  “What?” Michael was stunned.

  Laurent raised a brow. “They were going to create the Black Fire?” he asked the imp.

  “Yessss. Going to try,” the imp reported, grinning evilly. It bobbed up and down on the railing, skipping along the thin piece of white-painted wood with no care for the thirty-foot drop to the ground.

  “Do you know how they hoped to accomplish it?” Laurent pressed. He had assured Michael that he had no idea why the spell to conjure the fire was not working now. Michael only half believed him; only a fool would trust a Deveraux. In their family, blood was not thick at all. And it was the cheapest of commodities.

  “No,” the imp replied, completely unconcerned. Michael wondered if it was lying to Laurent—if, later, it would tell Michael everything. Michael had no idea why this imp had come to him, had chosen him to serve, and it had occurred to him more than once that it might actually be a spy—sent from James Moore, perhaps, or even Sir William.

  “She rescued him,” Michael mused. “Rescued my son.”

  He couldn’t help his admiration, but he prayed he did not reveal it in his tone. Little in this world infuriated Laurent as Holly Cathers’s continuing ability to thwart them at every turn. But though his ancestor insisted that she must die, Michael had not given up the idea of making her his consort. A strong witch like her in thrall, and Cahors and Deveraux together again … it could prove to be exactly what he needed to take over the Supreme Coven and conjure the Black Fire alone.

  The imp nodded eagerly. “Now we lure her back!”

  It jabbed a talon downward, and Michael understood.

  Lying in rows in his basement and in boxes in his chamber of spells, and resting impatiently in graveyards and mausoleums, his army of the dead awaited their marching orders. He had begun animating them months ago, biding his time, waiting, too, for the moment to strike.

  Duke Laurent smiled broadly. “Excellent,” he said. “I will enjoy that.”

  “And Sssan Francisssco,” the imp reminded Michael, “where the three are hiding.”

  Michael knew he was referring to the shaman, Dan Carter; the voodoo woman, Tante Cecile; and Holly’s uncle, Richard Anderson, the husband of Michael’s dead lover. He sneered. Killing Marie Claire’s husband would be ironic. As he had torn the two apart in life, he could cause them to be joined together in death. “San Francisco as well,” Michael assented.

  “It’s a fine time to be a Deveraux,” the Duke said approvingly. “A fine time for revenge, and death.”

  The imp chittered gleefully, and Fantasme flapped his wings as he soared in mockery at the Goddess Moon.

  Michael glided along the widow’s walk with a lighter step.

  * * *

  From her perch among the mists of time and magic, Pandion, the lady hawke of the Cahors, woke from her seemingly eternal slumbers and cocked her head. She sensed a battle was at hand, and her heart soared.

  It had been too long since she had dined on ashes and blood.

  Centuries too long.

  SEVEN

  AMBER

  Passion now begins to wake

  And whom we desire, we will take

  Then we’ll cut them down to the quick

  Love itself, the cruelest trick

  Moved we are by love’s sweet song

  Though it plays not for long

  We can blow on embers bright

  Till passion overtakes the light

  Cathers Coven: London

  They were alone. Seated on her bed, Jer was hidden in his blanket. He remained silent.

  Holly kept her eyes fixed on her hands, which were shaking badly. Her knees wobbled, and she sat on the other side of the bed; it was narrow enough that she could feel his body heat as he moved uncomfortably away.

  She blurted, “Jer, I didn’t mean …”

  “I know.” His voice was a cruel parody of his old voice, the one that had not been burned with Black Fire.

  “I didn’t mean to leave you alone in the fire,” she cut in, speaking more loudly than she had meant to. “My cousins didn’t know what would happen to you.”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it?” He kept his back to her. The blanket stretched across his broad back. She remembered what it felt like to put her arms around him. His lips on hers had been soft and warm, and then, as desire mounted, more insistent. She remembered all this, and her hands shook even harder.

  I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long. But it’s not at all how I thought it would be. I’m glad he’s safe. So glad. But... he doesn’t love me anymore. If he ever did.

  I can make him love me, she thought fiercely. I’m a witch.

  She balled her fists, resisting the temptation. That would be a hollow victory. “I … we can work on your … on your scars,” she ventured.

  “Just stay away from me,” he croaked. Then he said, “Eddie and Kialish are both dead?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes, remembering Eddie’s last moments. He had screamed for her to help him as the sea monster had advanced on him. But she had chosen to save Amanda instead, even though she had been afraid that Amanda was already dead.

  His silence condemned her. Then he said, “This is all because of us. My family. The Deveraux.”

  He said his own name as if it was a curse; to Holly’s way of thinking, he was right.

  “My father
will rule the Supreme Coven, Holly. He’ll do whatever it takes. He won’t stop until he’s sitting on the throne of skulls, either he himself or Eli. And he needs Black Fire to get there.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “He doesn’t care about people. About … me.” Jer drooped forward; the blanket shifted, and she realized he was burying his head in his hands. “My God, I’ve become such a whiner. I’m a friggin’ wimp.”

  “No.” She put her hand on his shoulder.

  A shudder ran through him and he jerked away. She clasped her hand against her chest, afraid she had harmed him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Me too.” He took a deep breath. “Please, Holly, I need some time. Alone.”

  The moment widened to a minute. Then Holly rose unsteadily and walked from the room, shutting the door behind herself.

  “How are you doing, ma belle ?” Philippe asked quietly as they sat beside each other on the settee. The others were milling around, talking about what Kari and Silvana had or hadn’t seen, beginning to look for things to eat for dinner. Holly had slammed into her bedroom, where Jer was, and had not returned.

  Nicole nodded slowly. “Good, but only because you’re here.” She looked at him wonderingly. “You actually came after me.”

  He smiled. “Did I not promise that I would? We of the White Magic Coven always keep our promises.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, and she couldn’t help but smile. There was a promise in his kiss, and she knew that he would keep it.

  “I love you,” she told him when he pulled back. “You’re what kept me alive the last few weeks.”

  “And do you know that I love you and will do everything in my power to keep you safe?”

  She nodded happily. “Yes. I can feel that.”

  Then Astarte sidled up to her, meowed, and leaped into her lap. To her surprise, she began crying.

  “Oh, cat,” she said fondly. “My sweet cat.”

  And she realized she was weeping for Hecate, who was dead. As if Astarte understood, she put a paw on Nicole’s cheek, catching a tear, and cocked her head. There was tenderness in the gesture, and sympathy, and Nicole stroked the cat’s head as she leaned against Philippe, resting against his chest as the cat began to purr.

  “You are well loved,” Philippe said.

  Nicole closed her eyes. “Yes.” Then she swallowed. “I have to talk to Holly. It’s about Joel.”

  He raised a brow. “What?”

  She took a deep breath and started to rise. Her knees were a little wobbly. Philippe assisted her.

  “Thanks.” She hesitated. “You can come with me, if you want.”

  “Of course.”

  He slid his fingers through hers; holding hands, they walked out of the sitting room and toward Holly’s closed door. Nicole began to tremble; she was more afraid than ever of Holly, even though Holly had just risked her own life to save Nicole’s.

  She raised her hand and rapped softly on the door. “Holly?”

  The door opened. Holly had been crying. She made no mention of her tears, only narrowed her eyes as if she were irritated by the intrusion. “What?”

  Nicole glanced around her; she couldn’t help her revolted fascination with Jer. He looked so horrible, it was hard not to fall into something like a hypnotic spell and gaze at him, as if something were hardwired in her brain that said, Pay attention. Don’t let this happen to you.

  He was lying with his face to the wall, the covers pulled up to his chin. She couldn’t make out his features.

  As if she sensed that Nicole was gawking, Holly scowled at her and came into the hallway, shutting the door behind herself. She crossed her arms across her chest and squared her shoulders.

  Nicole wanted to say, Holly, it’s just me. But she didn’t. What she did say was, “I had a vision. There was a man named Joel, I think... I think he’s dead, Holly.”

  The other girl visibly paled. Nicole reached out a hand and steadied Holly by the shoulder. Holly looked past her, as if to a distant place only she could see, and bit her lower lip. Beneath her hand, Nicole could feel Holly trembling.

  “What did you see?” she asked finally.

  “He was in his house. On the floor. The snow was coming in.”

  Holly ticked a glance at Philippe. “Go and check,” she ordered him.

  He nodded. “I’ll need the address.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Nicole said.

  “No.” Holly shook her head. “You’ll stay here.”

  Nicole frowned. “But—”

  “She’s right, Nicole,” Philippe cut in. “You stay here. I’ll go alone.”

  * * *

  Philippe was gone nearly an hour. When he returned, Holly was waiting for him in the entryway. Her face was ashen, and there were circles under her eyes. He hadn’t realized how tired she looked, and his heart went out to her. She looked thin in a baggy sweater, and he guessed that the Capri pants she was wearing shouldn’t be as loose as they were on her frame. I wonder if she’s eating? he thought. She was in a nearly impossible position; he didn’t know how she was managing as well as she was, and he admired her for her strength of will and her courage.

  She looked at him, then dropped her gaze as his expression told her the bad news. Joel was indeed dead, and had been lying just as Nicole had seen him in her vision.

  Holly was silent for a time. Then she murmured, “He healed me. During the battle that went away, he saved my life. And I …”

  “Sometimes there is a bargain,” Philippe said gently. “If that was the case, it was the right one to make. You are the High Priestess of a coven, and a powerful and important witch.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes glittering like hard, brittle glass. “If I’m so damn powerful, why did I have to make such a bargain?” she demanded. Then she softened a bit. “What did you do with him?” she asked.

  He hesitated. Then he said, “Witches are generally cremated. But I couldn’t do that for him. I simply called the police. His death appears as a heart attack, no foul play.”

  “But you didn’t wait for the police.”

  “Non. They won’t find me,” he assured her. “They won’t find us,” he corrected.

  “Good.” She swallowed. “Thanks.”

  He inclined his head. “You are welcome, Holly.”

  She blinked as if she was almost shocked by the kindness in his voice. His compassion for her increased.

  Then she shrugged as if to deny the dent he had made in her armor, turned on her heel, and left him alone in the entryway, where Nicole found him.

  She put her arms around him and pressed her face against his chest.

  “You found him,” Nicole said brokenly, “as I saw him.”

  “Oui.”

  “Oh, God, I hate this. All of this,” she whispered. “I want it to be over.”

  Philippe stroked her hair, and let her cry.

  Tante Cecile, Dan, and Richard: San Francisco

  Cecile Beaufrere had found several boxes of Christmas decorations in the attic of the small San Francisco house she, Dan Carter, and Richard Anderson had been living in for the last few weeks. They had discussed living in Holly’s home, or the home of Barbara Davis-Chin, but in the end, had decided that they had to stay as low under Michael Deveraux’s radar as possible. She and Richard had enough money to sustain them for a few more months—she had never liked using magic for personal economic gain—but she wondered when this ordeal would be over.

  If it’s ever over. The battle between good and evil is eternal. Are we destined to be part of that battle from now on?

  Despite her voudon roots, she had always kept Christmas back home in New Orleans. She did the same now, though it seemed forced: Richard was still numb from the shock of discovering the realities of the magical realm, and sick with worry over his daughters. He seemed to be rallying somewhat, however, and talking about making plans “to help out.” She had cautioned him to be very careful; they were in hiding, and h
e shouldn’t do anything that might allow Michael Deveraux to locate them.

  Dan was still mourning the death of his son, Kialish—and Kialish’s partner, Eddie, too—and Cecile was well-aware that this was the first Christmas without them.

  The year of firsts is the hardest, she told herself as she quietly decorated the Christmas tree. The first birthday, the first anniversary … the first time you walk into a room and realize that he will never be in his favorite chair …

  … oh, Marcus …

  Cecile had lost her own true love many years before. Marcus, Silvana’s uncle, had been a fabulous man—creative, artistic, and very kind. A professor at Tulane, he had died of a brain embolism when Silvana was an infant. Cecile had had no warning, and despite all the magical work she had done to keep her family safe and well, she and her niece had lost him in a matter of heartbeats.

  Now she was charged with protecting someone else’s loved one—Richard—and she was not certain she was up to the task.

  “That’s pretty,” he said now, walking into the living room. Nicole and Amanda, his daughters, were going to be terribly shocked when they saw him again. His hair had gone completely white.

  And they will see him, she vowed firmly. We will all be reunited. My loa will help guard them and guide them home.

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him and held out a small box of colored glass ornaments shaped like Christmas stockings. “Would you like to help?”

  “Maybe in a little while.” He eased himself slowly into a recliner facing the tree, folding his hands over his lap, and smiled vacantly at her.

  “Wish I had some eggnog,” he added. She said nothing. What he wished he had was the whiskey that went in the eggnog. By mutual agreement, neither she nor Dan purchased alcohol when they went to the grocery store—and Richard never went. They saw to that.

  Tomorrow night the moon would be full, and witches and magic users everywhere would be celebrating Yule. The winter solstice. Ironically, Yule had roots as an Egyptian solar festival, a twelve-day holiday to celebrate the rebirth of Horus, son of Isis and Osiris. The magical properties of the season were still recognized in their various forms, with many traditions being celebrated in many ways. The American secularized forms, together bundled as Christmas, had always held their appeal for Cecile, and she had no problem participating in the many rituals and traditions, drawing the strength of community from them.