Legacy & Spellbound

by Nancy Holder

  Veronica’s tears fell on her sister’s dark curls. It seemed ages since they had last seen each other, and who knew how long it would be before they were again reunited? “I will see you again soon, I promise.”

  Ginny nodded and finally pulled away from her. Tearfully, she turned and walked inside. She threw a last look over her shoulder and waved before stepping into the carriage.

  Veronica continued to wave until the carriage was out of sight. Then she turned wearily toward the front desk. At least I will be soon home with Charles and our son, Joshua. She smiled, buoyed by the thought. She headed for the staircase.

  “Ma’am?”

  She turned and saw the night manager walking toward her, a telegram in his hand. Puzzled, she took it from him. He nodded briefly and then returned to his duties. Clutching the telegram, she hurried upstairs.

  Inside her room, she sat down on the settee across from the lavatory. Her eyes dropped down to the name of the sender: Amy. Her sister-in-law.

  With shaking hands and a sinking feeling, she tore open the telegram and began to read it in a whisper.

  DEAR VERONICA. STOP. COME HOME AT ONCE. STOP. CHARLES DROWNED THIS MORNING. STOP. JOSHUA IS SAFE WITH ME. STOP. ALL MY PRAYERS. STOP. AMY.”

  A cry ripped from the very center of her heart. She got to her feet and flung the telegram across the room. It fluttered like a hapless paper boat and sank to the wooden floor. “No,” she whispered.

  There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a man’s voice. “Madame, are you okay in there?”

  Numbly, she opened the door. She stared at him, her mouth working. For a few seconds, no sound would come out. “No,” she said. Then she sank to the floor.

  Something burned Veronica’s eyes and nose; she bolted upright to discover herself reclining on the settee with a small crowd around her. A mustached man with a shock of white hair was tapping her wrist. A stout woman beside him moved a vial of smelling salts from beneath Veronica’s nose, once she realized Veronica had been revived.

  “My husband,” she managed.

  The woman nodded kindly. “I read your telegram. Hope you don’t mind none.”

  How can he be dead? There was so much left to do, to experience. We were going to have another child… .

  “Drink this. It’s laudanum. It’ll help you sleep,” the man with the mustache ordered as he held out a glass of milky liquid. More gently, he added, “I’m a doctor. And permit me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Kelly.”

  Mrs. Kelly’s eyes shone with tears. “You dear girl,” she said. “You dear, sweet girl.” She gestured to the glass. “Drink up. Get some rest. I’ll stay with you until you sleep.”

  More in shock than anything else, Veronica gulped down the draft. Then she lay numbly against the pillow and closed her eyes.

  She woke much later, to discover that the Kellys had left. Groggily, she sat up, then swung her legs over the bed. She found her slippers, slid her feet into them, and rose.

  The room tilted and spun, and she grabbed hold of the bedpost. She put on her peignoir, then silently glided to the door.

  Something whispered to her to open the door. She frowned, knowing that to walk the halls of a hotel in the dead of night wearing nothing but her sleeping clothes was not something she should do; and yet the little whispers persisted, urging her to act.

  Before she realized it, her hand turned the knob. In a daze, she began to walk down the empty hall. It was as if someone walked beside her, guiding her, whispering directions to her in her ear.

  After a time, she realized she had found her way somehow to the fourth floor. A chill swept through her, and she turned around, shivering. The door at the end of the hall seemed to shimmer briefly in her sight. She wanted to turn, to run down the hall, but she didn’t. Instead, she found herself drifting toward the door, pulled as though against her will. At last she stood before it and she could feel someone, something, on the other side.

  Of its own accord, her hand lifted. She tried to stop it, but she had lost control. Fear washed over her, leaving her stomach churning and her knees trembling.

  Touch the door, a voice inside her mind commanded.

  “No,” she whispered. But the choice was not hers.

  Her fingers brushed against the wood, and the contact sent electricity shooting through her arm. She pressed her palm against the door and felt, for a moment, the thing that was on the other side. There was rage, and hatred and … curiosity.

  Suddenly it was as if her will was hers again, and she snatched her hand away with a cry. She turned and, picking up her skirts, fled down the hall. As she reached the top of the stairs she heard the door open; the sound lent speed to her feet.

  She raced blindly down the stairs until she reached the first floor of the Coronado. She glanced toward the double entrance doors. No. It was the middle of the night, and she would be exposed outside.

  She needed somewhere to hide. She was terrified, quite overcome; she wondered briefly if it was the laudanum, but she doubted that. Her Cathers intuition had come on full throttle, and every fiber of her being shouted that she was in real danger.

  A door caught her eye and she raced to it, yanked it open, and found another set of stairs. Skirts held high, she bounded down the stairs, her heart pounding and lungs burning.

  She shot into the basement. The light from a single lantern tried to push back the darkness and failed woefully. She stopped, took a few deep breaths, and looked around. There must be somewhere to hide.

  But why do you want to do that? It was the soft, insistent voice again, the one that had spoken to her outside the door upstairs … only this time so loud, she could hear its timbre. It was a woman’s voice.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. “Are you angel or demon?”

  I am Isabeau.

  “Isabeau?” She tasted the name on her tongue. It seemed very familiar to her, although she could never remember hearing it before. “But … who are you?”

  Before the voice could answer, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Footsteps followed, echoing loud as thunder.

  There was a pile of rags on the ground; maybe she could hide in them. Before she had taken a step toward them, though, a voice boomed, “Stop!”

  She turned, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting. She was pinned to the spot by a pair of smoldering eyes. The firelight danced across his hair, and his features twisted demonically.

  And yet, there was something strangely compelling about this dark, hard-featured man… .

  “Well, well, looks like I found myself a Cahors witch,” he said. “One of two remaining, if I’m not mistaken. And their father, of course.”

  “Y-you are mistaken, sir,” she stammered. “My name is Veronica Cathers, and I am certainly no witch. And... and neither is my... fath... anyone I know.”

  For a moment a shadow of doubt crossed his face. Then he shook his head. “Your name doesn’t mean a thing to me. I am concerned with who you are, not what you call yourself. And, my dear lady, you are a witch.”

  “I am no witch,” she cried again, moving away from him. I’m a widow, her mind wailed. A widow. Oh my God, my family is dead! My true love …

  My true love …

  Jean …

  The darkly imposing man smiled and lifted his right hand. A ball of fire danced in it, and he lobbed it at her slowly. She opened her mouth to scream, but instead, words strange to her ear came out, and the fireball fizzled, dissolving in midair.

  She was so astonished that her legs gave way; she grabbed on to a chair for purchase, panting wildly. A cold sweat burst across her forehead, and she was terribly hot, though she wore only her nightdress and peignoir.

  The man chuckled cruelly. “You see? A witch.”

  Her mind raced. She backed away further. “Go away. Please.”

  He smiled. “Not for all the tea, sweet lady. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marc Deveraux, of the House Deveraux, a warlock, and your sworn enemy.”

  “My �
� enemy?” she said slowly.

  Did he have something to do with the drowning? Did he kill … did he … murder …

  Non, he is Jean, my love, my enemy, my husband, the voice whispered. Jean comes to me through him. You will stay. You will allow him to touch you, to kiss you, to make love to you.

  And then … you will kill him.

  For me.

  Marc Deveraux cocked his head to the side, and his eyes took on a faraway look as though, he, too, were hearing something. “Isabeau,” he whispered.

  “Jean,” she answered.

  His face softened. He reached out a hand. “My love. Mon amour, ma femme, tu est ici, avec moi …”

  “Oui, I am here … je suis ici, mon homme, mon seigneur …”

  She moved toward him as if in a dream. Her hands raised toward him.

  “No,” she whispered. And then again, more fiercely, “No!”

  The shout punctuated the air, and Marc’s face snapped back into sharp focus. “Then die!” he shouted.

  He raised his hand and sent a fireball her way, full-speed this time. She cried out and ducked to the side. The fire landed in the pile of rags that she had thought to hide in. Within moments they were blazing out of control.

  From somewhere deep inside of her, Veronica recalled a half-memory, shadowed in the fog of her early childhood. It was of a beautiful woman with flowing hair muttering in a foreign tongue. Veronica opened her mouth, and the same words came pouring out of her, the memory growing stronger. A fireball appeared in the air before her, and she willed it forward.

  Marc leaped to the side, but the fireball caught the sleeve of his jacket and the fire began to burn. Raging, he shouted in French as he peeled the jacket off his body.

  They faced each other for a long moment, circling warily. Veronica could feel the heat of the fire as it spread to other parts of the basement. It was licking at the roof of the room in the corner. She tried to edge nearer to the stairs and safety. There was a popping sound, and it was followed by a far-off scream.

  Maybe someone will find us, she hoped. Suddenly Marc shouted, and the room began to disintegrate around her, turning into a whirling dervish of tools, cans, and wood. She ducked as the lantern whizzed through the air where her head had been.

  She took a step backward, and the backs of her ankles hit the stairs. He started toward her. There were more shouts from upstairs.

  Part of the ceiling in the corner collapsed in a shower of sparks. The door to the basement opened, and she heard a man shouting, “The fire’s down here!”

  She turned and ran up the stairs as fast as she could, with Marc on her heels. He reached out and grabbed the hem of her robe, and she heard the rending of cloth. Part of her skirt ripped free, and she burst past the man at the top of the stairs who had shouted.

  He swore under his breath and then yelled, “Lady, what’s happening?”

  She ignored him and kept running. She hit the front door and burst outside into the fresh air. Her lungs were burning, and she felt like her heart would explode from her chest. More shouts began to come from the hotel behind her, but she didn’t look back.

  She kept running until the night had swallowed her.

  Marc Deveraux tried to fight off the arms of those who were holding him back, asking him questions about the fire. He seethed, ignoring them. The witch had gotten away. He held the piece of skirt that had ripped free in his hand and rubbed it slowly between his thumb and forefinger.

  Heat, which had nothing to do with the flames that were beginning to engulf the hotel, filled his being. Veronica Cathers, we will find you, Isabeau, the voice in his head sobbed. Come back, my love. Come back.

  Tri-Coven: Seattle

  The band—Kari, Tommy, Amanda, and Nicole—left Barbara behind in the motel to inspect the ruins of the cabin. Though they hoped to discover more survivors, death hung in the charred landscape like a pall. The twilight sucked whatever color might have been left, and they walked in an alien landscape that mirrored Amanda’s notion of limbo.

  Amanda found Silvana lying at the edge of the trees. Her eyes were fixed wide, her face frozen in terror. She fell to her knees beside her. For years, Silvana had been her best friend. She and her aunt had come to help when all the craziness had started. Now, she was gone—they both were. They are dead because of me.

  She balled her hands into fists. No, not because of her—because of Michael Deveraux. His evil had brought pain and death upon them all.

  She could not tell what had killed Silvana. She reached down and lifted Silvana’s head into her lap. Something sticky coated her hands. She began to wretch when she realized the cause. The back of Silvana’s head was gone.

  Rage ripped through her. Silvana had not deserved to die. A shout from Tommy pierced through her fog of pain and brought her to her feet.

  He was standing amid the smoking ruins of the cabin. He was frozen, staring down at something she could not see. Picking her way carefully across the field of debris, she joined him. He was standing in front of a bookshelf that had been snapped in half and fallen in a tepee shape.

  There, wedged between and underneath the two halves, was a person. Amanda reached out to touch the bookshelf, but was painfully repulsed. The space was heavily warded. “Is—it—alive?” she asked, not even sure if it was human, let alone whether “it” was male or female.

  “I don’t know,” Tommy answered quietly. “I couldn’t touch it either. We need help.”

  “Have you found anyone else?”

  He shook his head. “You?”

  “I found Silvana’s body—what was left of it.”

  He grabbed her hand and gave it a fierce squeeze.

  “Has anyone else had any luck?”

  “I don’t know, let’s—”

  He was interrupted by a loud, keening wail—as if it were an animal’s. Tommy shot her a grim look, and they hurried toward the sound.

  They found Pablo a little ways off. He was kneeling by a fresh mound of dirt. Two sticks had been tied together with a strip of cloth to form the shape of a cross. The cross had been driven into the ground at one end of the mound. In the dirt on the mound a pentagram had been drawn along with other symbols unknown to Amanda. She grasped Pablo’s shoulder. “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “Alonzo.”

  The oldest member of the Spanish Coven. Tears stung her eyes. Another dead. Pablo bowed his head and sobbed.

  A thought struck her: If Alonzo is buried, who did it? A ray of hope shone through. It must have been Philippe. He alone of the missing covenates would have thought to adorn the grave with both Christian and Wiccan symbols.

  “Pablo!”

  The boy looked up, startled.

  “Can you sense Philippe? He must have buried Alonzo.”

  The boy closed his eyes. After a moment, a look of frustration crossed his face. He put out his hand, touching the symbols marked into the dirt. His eyes flew open, and he nodded eagerly. “Yes, and he is not far away.”

  As if on cue, a branch snapped behind them. They whirled around to see Philippe emerging cautiously from the trees. Pablo leaped to his feet and flew to him. Philippe clasped him tight. Amanda approached more slowly. When she had reached them, Pablo released Philippe, who in turn hugged Amanda.

  “It is good to see you.”

  “And you,” she told him.

  “Armand?” he questioned.

  “Safe. He saved Kari as well.”

  Philippe sighed deeply, as though a burden had been lifted from him. “And the others?”

  “Dan, Holly, and Sasha are still missing. Silvana and Alonzo are dead. Everyone else is alive.”

  “Have you heard anything of Nicole?”

  She shook her head. “No, not since James and Eli took her.”

  Tommy broke in. “We did find someone, or something, in the debris. It’s warded, though, and we can’t reach it.”

  “Show me.”

  Minutes later they were all gathered before the broken bookshe
lf. Armand, Kari, and Richard had joined them, and they all took turns peering into the recess. Finally Philippe observed, “The wards are strong. It will take all of us to break them.”

  Amanda agreed. The others, except for Richard, formed a chain with Philippe at one end and Tommy at the other. They began to chant quietly, each in his own way but with a common purpose.

  Philippe and Tommy each laid a free hand on one of Amanda’s shoulders. She could feel the group’s power washing over her and through her.

  She took a deep breath and reached through the ward, which had already been weakened by the chanting. She grasped the creature’s arms and tugged. The body moved only a little. She tensed all her muscles and yanked. The body flew out and into her arms.

  She stumbled backward, and the group caught her. Tommy relieved her of her burden and lowered the body to the ground. It was Sasha.

  Everyone pressed forward to look at her. Her eyelids flew open, and everyone jumped back. Sasha gazed up at Amanda and asked, in an eerily normal voice, “What happened?”

  Amanda couldn’t help herself, she started to laugh. And then, as a portal opened up in front of her and four lumbering gray creatures exited it, she began to scream.

  Philippe hurled a fireball in the blink of an eye, but it had no effect on the creature it struck. He threw another and another with no effect. As the group stumbled backward, Amanda threw up a barrier. The first of the creatures hit it, and simply opened a portal on the other side of it.

  “What are those things?” Amanda shrieked.

  “I don’t know, but we have to get away from them!” Philippe answered.

  “To the woods, everyone, quickly!” Richard yelled, voice booming.

  They turned and fled, the creatures pursuing. Another portal opened in front of Amanda, though, and the creatures just cut them off.

  “They’re after Amanda!” Tommy shouted, yanking her away from a reaching arm.

  “Armand, do something!” Philippe shouted.

  The other witch nodded and raised his arms. Suddenly, the creatures stopped. The one closest to Amanda cast its head back and forth as though looking for a scent it had just lost.

  “What, what’s happening?” she asked in a whisper.