by Nancy Holder
Despair would be Holly’s lot, but not defeat.
With a cry of triumph, Pandion demanded that of the Goddess.
And winking in the cool ice light of a winter’s Yule moon, the Goddess assented.
Holly Cathers was not yet done.
Nor were her covenates.
Nor was her love.
Spellbound
For those who hold me spellbound: Elise and Hank, Skylah and Belle, Teresa and Richard, Sandra and Belle … and our David, always. We all miss you, sweetie.
—Nancy Holder
To my mother, Barbara Reynolds, who has always loved me, encouraged me, and believed in me, thank you for everything.
—Debbie Viguié
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First of all, thank you, Debbie Viguié, for your friendship, your talent, and your dedication. And thank you to her husband, Scott, for your shoulder, your ear, and your wisdom. Lisa Clancy and Lisa Gribbin at Simon and Schuster, thank you both for all your care, editorial and otherwise. I have so much respect and affection for my agent, Howard Morhaim, and his assistant, Ryan Blitstein. For my many friends, I am so grateful—Dal, Steve, Lydia, Art, Jeff, Maryelizabeth, Melissa Mia, Von and Wes, Angela and Pat, and Liz Cratty Engstrom. Kym, you’re the It girl. Thank you.
—N. H.
Thanks to my friend and coauthor, Nancy Holder, you are one in a million! Thanks, as always, to the fabulous team of Lisa Clancy and Lisa Gribbin at Simon and Schuster—what would we do without you? Thank you to Lindsay Keilers for your friendship. Thanks to Morris Skupinsky and Julie Gentile for all your love and support and my lucky contract/book-signing pen! Thank you to Super Librarian Rebecca Collacott (sorry for giving away your secret identity!). Thank you also to Michael, Sabrina, and most especially, Whisper.
—D. V.
Part One
Earth
From the earth below we come
And upon its breast we live
We feed it with our death
Our bodies all we can give
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust
In Mother Earth we place our trust
And as we cycle through our years
We water it with blood and tears
ONE
ISIS
We’ve scattered now all their bones
Ruined all their lives and homes
None can now escape Deveraux ire
As we burn them with midnight fire
Goddess hear us in the night
Save all Cahors within your sight
Help us not to count the cost
As we survey all we’ve lost
Seattle: Amanda and Tommy
The whole world was on fire. Trees exploded in showers of sparks, and bits of burning leaves fluttered toward the ground. They landed on Amanda Anderson’s shoulders as she ran, and she did not have time to snuff them out. She could smell her hair burning, but she could not stop. She was being run to ground just like a wild animal, and she felt as small and insignificant as the squirrel that raced past her and shot up a tree, fleeing the smoke and the flames.
Behind her, unearthly screams pierced the night, howls of pain that could have come from either beast or man. She didn’t turn around. People were dying, and she could not save them.
Beside her, her soul mate, Tommy Nagai, ran for his life, his breathing labored. His lungs were being seared by the same acrid smoke that was burning hers. Through the smoke she had lost sight of Philippe, her sister Nicole’s true love; she hoped he was still beside Tommy, or at least behind him.
Goddess, keep us together . She sobbed, bereft and terrified, wondering if there was anywhere on the planet that such a prayer could come true. From Seattle to Paris to London and back again, Amanda and the other members of the Cahors Coven had run from Deveraux warlocks. Michael Deveraux had probably engineered the deaths of Holly’s parents and attacked their family friend, Barbara Davis-Chin, so that the teenage Holly had no one to turn to except Amanda and Nicole’s family in Seattle. Then he had had an affair with their mom, and Amanda was certain he was responsible for her death as well. He was closing in on Holly from all sides.
Michael’s son Eli had been Nicole’s “bad boy” boyfriend for a couple of years, but he had helped James Moore, son of the Supreme Coven, kidnap Nicole and force her into marriage with James.
And now they’ve kidnapped her again.
And Jeraud Deveraux … who could say how much of all this was his fault? His own brother and father had burned him with Black Fire; he was hideous now, horribly scarred. He claimed to love Holly, but he was still a Deveraux warlock … and the vessel through which Jean Deveraux could attempt to finish the vendetta between the ancient, noble Deveraux and Cahors witch families, by murdering Amanda’s cousin, Holly Cathers.
Michael Deveraux had won the battle, won the war. He and the forces of evil had been too powerful. Even with the Mother Coven helping them, Holly’s coven had never stood a chance. Now almost everyone Amanda loved in the entire world was either dead or missing.
When Michael attacked them with his army and set their safe house on fire, Amanda had prayed all the spells and charms she could think of as her covenates scattered, racing from the burning cabin into the night. She didn’t know if, with their own magic, the others had saved her and Tommy, or if it was just sheer luck that she and he had escaped into the trees relatively unscathed.
Whatever the reason, I am so grateful. So very, very grateful.
As she staggered along, defeated and terrified, she wasn’t sure what she believed anymore. She used to think that the Goddess would protect them no matter what, that their powers could match that of Michael Deveraux.
That was before tonight, when James Moore and Eli had kidnapped her sister, Nicole, right out of the stronghold of the coven.
She used to believe that she could count on Holly to know what to do, even if it wasn’t always what Amanda herself would have chosen. That was before Holly had been possessed by demons from the Dreamtime and had lost Jeraud Deveraux in the process. We could have used him to fight his father, she thought bitterly. Now she didn’t even know if he was alive. Just like everyone else.
She used to believe there was safety in numbers, but even all the reinforcements sent by the Mother Coven had been helpless before the powers of darkness wielded against them. Now, for all she knew, she and Tommy were alone, the only two survivors of a very bad night.
We tried so hard. We tried for so long. How can it be that we failed? Doesn’t right eventually prevail?
She wished she could ask Tommy some of these questions, but she couldn’t spare any precious energy to speak. The flames were on their heels, racing all the faster because of the magic that was fanning them. They had to keep running. She could feel the heat fanning her back, burning her with its intensity. She glanced at Tommy. Sweat poured down his face, which was flushed. Her fear isolated her from him; though she loved him, she realized now that his love had limits, just like all love. He couldn’t save her life simply by loving her. He couldn’t make everything better.
But he can help me give it meaning, she thought, watching his strong back, barely visible through the smoke. There are people worth living for. And dying for. And that’s the blessing the Goddess has given us … and the curse. It makes us keep going … and makes us want to give up.
She was exhausted. She hadn’t slept in longer than she could remember, and it seemed like all she had been doing her entire life was fighting and running. Especially running. Maybe she should just stop and let the fire catch her, or Michael Deveraux, if he was back there. It would be so much easier. She was tired and sick of it all.
But the strange thing was that no matter how much she wanted to give up, she couldn’t. A tiny spark flickered deep inside her chest—she could sense it rather than feel it—and she had no idea if that was her soul or her conscience or some other magical part of her.
I am a Lady of the Lily, she thought. One of the Three Sisters. Holly carries
most of our magic bloodline, but not all of it. I am one of the Cahors witches, even though my last name is Anderson, but Nicole and I are Cahors descendants, same as Holly.
If something happens to Holly... if Nicole isn’t... if she is dead, then I’m the only one …
She choked back a sob and violently shook her head. She was overwhelmed. She had already lost her mother. She refused to even consider that she might have lost other loved ones.
Nicole and I were finally getting close. She can’t be dead. She has to be alive, because I can’t stand any more dying.
Skeletal branches grabbed at her hair and ripped her clothes to shreds. Blood dripped down her forehead into her eyes, turning the world into a sea of heaving red. Still, she ran, and Tommy with her; and she was beginning to lose hope for Philippe.
Then, behind her, another explosion split the night air. She risked a glance back. It was massive, fissuring the earth like a nightmare earthquake. The tall copse of trees closest to her immediately burst into flames, and fireballs of branches and pinecones plummeted from the sky.
The resultant magical shock wave from the explosion threw her to the ground with such force that her ribs snapped, one by one by one, as if someone were ripping them from her backbone.
Somewhere nearby, Tommy screamed in agony.
The world was exploding; everything was blazing, even the ground. She looked up; a wedge of birds burst into flame and, screaming as one being, dropped into the firestorm that the forest had become.
Desperately she grabbed fistfuls of dirt and screamed, “Goddess help me!”
Though the fire raged around her, a centering quiet seized her thundering heart. As fear drained from her, the lack of tension was for a moment more unnerving than the terror had been. As lassitude crept over her, she felt vulnerable to further attacks.
“Be still,” came a voice, a woman’s voice. “Be still; I will not leave you.”
“Goddess,” she whispered. “Goddess.”
“I will not leave you.”
Amanda wearily closed her eyes.
Maybe you won’t leave me, she thought, but will you actually help me? Can you save me?
Then she let the darkness take her, her last thought for Tommy.
If you can’t save me, can you save him? Goddess, he is my life. Can you save him? I will do anything …
Anything …
“Ssh,” the Goddess urged her.
And Amanda obeyed.
London, the Supreme Coven: Sir William
Sir William Moore, descendant of Sir Richard Moore, the famed Australian governor who had brought the Nightmare Dreamtime to the arsenal of his house, sat on the skull throne and chuckled. As head of the Supreme Coven, master and servant of evil, he was exhilarated by the death and despair that coursed through his very veins as, halfway across the world in Seattle, witches died. Michael Deveraux had done well.
But not well enough. For while it was true that many of the forces of light had been extinguished, there were three yet alive whom Sir William willed dead: Holly Cathers, and the twin sisters, Amanda and Nicole Anderson.
I can change that.
And I will.
Filled with confidence and grim purpose, he rose, his ceremonial midnight robes swirling around him. He was not surprised that Michael had failed to kill the three Cahors witches. It was clear that the warlock wasn’t putting his heart into it. He still believes that an alliance between the House of Deveraux and the House of Cahors would give his family enough power to overthrow me . Sir William chuckled again. Michael Deveraux was about to outlive his usefulness.
He is living on borrowed time, anyway, to borrow a cliché. I’m not sure he is aware that the threads of his existence have never left my fingers … and that my athame can cut a man’s life to ribbons with unbelievable speed.
Sir William entered a tiny stone room that was empty save for a stone washtub and a chair upon which was folded a simple white garment. He disrobed and stepped into the warm water. Magics that required ritual purification were not to be taken lightly, not even by the leader of the Supreme Coven. The water for the bath had been brought by an innocent, a young serving girl unaware of the dark purposes of her master. Likewise the pure white robe had been brought by a delivery boy who had been instructed to place it in the room so that no other hands would touch it.
As soon as each of them had left the room, their throats had been cut by Sir William’s favorite, one Alastair, and their bodies hefted into the dungeon. Nothing would go to waste; the Supreme Coven’s Book of Shadows contained spells requiring all sorts of interesting portions of the human body … and the skull throne could always use another head or two… .
The stone room and everything in it was clean and undefiled, and unknown to the outside world. Now it was Sir William’s turn to be cleansed.
Clearing his mind of all emotion, all volition, all cognition, he scooped up the water and turned to the east. He sluiced it over his head, a mockery of Christian baptism, and allowed his muscles to slacken. In the spiritual form of freefall, he humbly submitted to the Dark God, who loved him and provided for him.
While in this limbo state, he allowed the dark forces to penetrate him, and to lift from his essence another small portion of his soul. He could sense their presence, feel the removal. There was a sharp pain for a moment, like a pinprick, and then it was over.
He had very little of his soul left, but so far, he had not missed it much. In truth, from what he had seen of those who were not children of the Horned God, souls weighed heavily and drained the joy and pleasure from their hosts.
Restoring himself to his own senses, the warlock performed the same obeisance to the west, the north, and the south, to the many aspects of the God: the Green Man; Pan; the Horned One; the Outcast Son of Light.
The purification and obeisance complete, Sir William donned the white garment— interesting that both sides use white to much the same effect, he noted idly, the absence of prior limitation —and imperiously waved his hand.
A section of the wall disappeared to reveal another room. It was brilliantly clean and devoid of any contents, save for a dozen life-size clay statues of men lying in four rows of three on the stone floor.
My Golems, he thought eagerly. So useful, so professional. I love using them as minions.
He rewalled the room and walked to the statuary. Though they currently reclined passively on their backs, they reminded him of the massive army of Qin dynasty terra cotta figures discovered in China three decades before. Though modern archaeologists had not realized it, Sir William knew the figures served a similar purpose as the dozen now lying before him: the bidding of those who knew how to control them.
Each statue was approximately six feet tall, each one clearly distinguishable from his fellows. Their faces were fierce and battle-ready; their expressions leered and spoke of violence and evil and a love of the hunt. On each of their foreheads was inscribed the word emet, which in the tongue of the ancients meant “truth.”
He put his hand inside his white garment. Sewn into the skirt was a pouch, and in that pouch lay twelve pieces of vellum stolen from the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris during one of the Supreme Coven’s many aborted raids on the Mother Coven’s Moon Temple.
Inside the mouths of the Golems he placed the strips of vellum. The creatures had no teeth; they expelled no breath. Once he brought them into life, the paper would still stay in place, as Golems had no voices with which to speak. It was the only flaw in otherwise perfect creatures.
While the houses of Deveraux and Cahors had spent centuries trying to destroy each other, House Moore had spent the time studying every form of magic known to man. It had been a wise and mature path … and one that was personally very rewarding for Sir William, for all their knowledge had all been passed down to him. He knew the secrets of the Australian aboriginals; the holy words of the Middle East; the rituals of shamans from countless different tribes... and he knew the secrets of the Kabalistic school
s.
Golems sprang from that tradition: the veneration of the word. From thought to word sprang all creation—the earth, the heavens, and life within shapes of clay.
Sir William slowly walked around his unholy dozen, chanting in Hebrew. He called out the seventy-two names of God recorded in the Talmud. He did so carefully, precisely, for to make a slip would mean certain death to him. Each name corresponded to a limb or organ of the creatures on the ground. Each name called a part of the clay beings into life. To mispronounce a name would result in that organ or limb being misplaced on his own body.
Into the clay creatures he poured his spirit, his will, even as he breathed words of life over them. Ancient rabbis had created Golems for holy purposes. Ancient warlocks had learned how to twist that act of creation to their own dark purposes. The Golem became an extension of its creator, and any sins it might commit were placed on the head of the “father.” Sir William could not hold back a smile. It is a good thing I don’t care about sins.
At last the final name was pronounced. With a flourish, Sir William stepped back. “Abracadabra,” he intoned—a sacred word used so often, it had become a shorthand parody of magical forms. Few who spoke it mockingly understood that each syllable carried within it enormous potential for destruction … or grace.
The twelve forms on the ground shuddered into hideous life. Slowly, one by one, they rose, terrible in form, with blank, uncomprehending stares. Truly they were empty vessels waiting to be filled, to be commanded, to be given a purpose.
Sir William waved his hand at the four of them on his left. “You, you will seek out the witch known as Nicole Anderson, of the ancient house Cahors. Destroy her.”
The four beings nodded, their eyes filling with a flicker of intelligence as they grasped their duty. Faithful servants, they would obey him.
