by Nancy Holder
She had her doubts about that. The body might be dead, but she was certain Sir William had found a way to cheat death. Where was he, though? Why was he silent and waiting, especially with Michael Deveraux and his own son, James, dead? Plots within plots within plots. Warlock politics were harder to follow than that of the mundane world.
It was entirely possible that the offer to give the Skull Throne to Jer was just another one of those plots, but if it was, she couldn’t see the puppet master at work behind the scenes.
“Holly,” Jer murmured.
Eve rolled her eyes. He was dreaming about the Cathers witch. Romeo and Juliet had nothing on them as far as star-crossed lovers go, she thought. She got up and slipped outside, reveling in the brisk night air. The Goddess might rule the nighttime, but Eve was one warlock who didn’t fear either night or day.
“Is there a reason you keep following me?” Jer complained, staring moodily at Eve.
“Sorry. Not so much following as traveling with you,” she said, in clipped tones.
“Why?”
“Because, in theory at least, you’re searching for your brother. I figure the best way to find him is to stay close to you.”
“So you can what, offer him the Skull Throne instead of me? Supreme Coven doesn’t care who leads as long as it’s a Deveraux?”
She averted her eyes from his. “That’s not entirely true,” she said.
He watched her carefully. She was powerful, sexy, everything you would want in a warlock. The attraction was there, he couldn’t deny it, but there was something else, some sort of connection that went beyond physical. He wondered what it would be like to work magic with her. His instinct told him it would be wild, uncontrolled magic. And there was enough of the warlock in him still to be tempted.
He sighed and turned away. In a strange way Eve had been helping him. Since she cared nothing about his scars, he had been slowly forgetting—at least when it was just the two of them—how deformed he was. If only it could have been that way with Holly.
Not that she cared about the scars.
Perhaps the most devastating lesson of his life was one that he was becoming more painfully aware of every day. He had made a mistake. He never should have left Holly. She loved him and had been willing to be in thrall to him. His own pride and fear and selfishness had gotten in the way. It might have been their one chance at salvation. Now he feared it was too late for him. He was almost certain that if she was still alive it was too late for her.
He had left England to get away from the temptation that the Skull Throne provided. He was arrogant enough to believe that if he was in charge he could actually make a difference. He was realist enough to realize that the throne would change him and not the other way around. He had fled to Germany not so much to look for Eli as to put more distance between him and London.
They had been in the city two days, and he was making the rounds of the tourist sites. Nothing better to do. Not like Jer Deveraux ever saved anyone.
He stood now where the Berlin Wall had once stood, dividing West and East. Good and evil. Witch and warlock. Unfortunately, nothing was ever quite that simple. How many years had he spent trying to straddle that fence?
“One day you’re going to have to choose, you know,” Eve said quietly.
“Choose what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“Who you are, who you really want to be.”
“My destiny was chosen for me. Deveraux by name, scarred by fire, cursed by all the gods.”
Eve slapped him so hard across the face that it spun him partly around. The hood of his sweatshirt fell back, exposing his face to the light. He waited for the gasps of people around as they saw his ruined flesh, but none came. Suddenly, though, a little girl was standing in front of him. She held out her teddy bear to him. Bewildered, he took it from her.
“The bad men hurt my daddy real bad too,” she said. Her wide blue eyes were trusting, loving. She patted his hand and then turned and walked away, leaving her teddy bear with him. He stared down into the lifeless black eyes and realized that he had never felt so lost.
“You want to know what I see?” Eve said. “I see a coward. I see a good man with great power and unlimited potential who has always enjoyed playing helpless. You’ve shirked all your responsibilities to yourself and others, whined about how bad your life is, and failed in every task you’ve ever set for yourself, not because you weren’t up to the challenge but because you can’t stop pitying yourself for five seconds.”
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“I’m saying get over yourself. A lot of people have had tougher lives than you’ll ever know. So you had a father you didn’t like. So you were terribly scarred in battle. So you lost the love of your life because you were too damn selfish to let anyone in. Boo frickin’ hoo. You want to make the world a better place? Hell, you want to make your own wretched life better? Tell you what, when you decide to man up, you know where to find me.”
She turned and stalked away, and once again Jer was alone…
…on the fence…
…holding a teddy bear.
Outside Mumbai:
Holly, Alex, Pablo, Armand, and the Temple of the Air
Holly smiled appreciatively as Alex said “Incendio” and a fire blazed into being. She and he had created a beautiful bower inside a cave, conjuring silken pillows and mosaic lamps, and low carved tables inlaid with abalone. Alex had located a small outpost of Supreme Covenates about three miles to their west, and they would attack before dawn. For now they needed to eat, rest, and thaw out.
“I never thought I’d wind up hunting warlocks in India,” Alex said, rippling his socked feet close to the bright orange flames.
“Life is full of surprises,” Holly replied faintly.
“Amen,” Armand said, crossing himself. He seemed troubled, and Pablo, too. Yet each time she’d asked him if something was wrong, he’d hesitated and said no.
Doesn’t he trust me? she wondered.
“Let’s eat,” Alex said, unpacking the cheeses, bread, and other delicacies they had loaded up on in the last village. “I think this is some kind of local moonshine or something.” He pulled out a leather bag and pulled off the stopper with his teeth. “What shall we drink to? Death to the enemy?”
“To life,” Armand said. This time Pablo crossed himself as well.
“All right.” Alex placed the bag against his lips and tipped it back. He grimaced as he swallowed. “That is sour.”
He handed the bag to Holly, and his grimace faded as he gazed at her. The light played over his craggy features. “To life,” he said softly.
Holly took a taste. It was actually very sweet.
“The powers of darkness are marshaling their forces,” Armand said darkly as he stared into the heart of the fire.
He was right. They all knew it, and Holly had caught herself looking over her shoulder almost constantly. She had the feeling that something big was happening, that there was a larger picture and somehow she had only been given a few small jigsaw pieces.
How am I supposed to know what to do with them? she fretted. The Goddess had been silent lately, and Holly wasn’t sure if that denoted approval, disapproval, or indifference. Given the sacrifices the Goddess had already asked of her, indifference might not be so bad. At least Holly knew where she stood with herself. And even though they did not discuss things with one another openly, she was pretty sure she knew where she stood with Armand and Pablo, too.
Alex stretched out lazily beside her, like a cat sunning himself. She frowned. She knew where she stood with him. The time was coming when his patience would run out and he would push for them to be in thrall to each other.
The thought terrified Holly. The last time she had been in thrall, it had been while she was possessed and her archenemy Michael Deveraux had taken advantage. To the best of her knowledge it had been a spiritual union only. With Alex it would not be that way. He would demand a complete union, body and
soul.
Holly had hoped for so long that when she finally gave herself to a man, it would be to Jer. He had shut that door, though, not her. She closed her eyes and remembered the feel of his lips on hers. Even as the memories stirred, she could feel another’s thoughts, her long dead ancestress Isabeau who burned for her husband, Jean, also moving in her thoughts.
“Où? Où est-tu?”
Where are you?
Mon âme?
My soul?
seven
ANISE
Deveraux hearts are always cold
Despite whatever lies we’ve told
But something’s changing deep inside
Even our wickedness can’t hide
Trapped we are by all our years
While fire burns and fire sears
At the end, sacrifice is all we know
But it only makes the darkness grow
Scarborough: Nicole, Amanda, Richard, Tommy, and Owen
“No,” Nicole said brokenly, as she rose from Amanda’s bed and began to pace. She went to the window and gazed out at her little son, wrapped in a soft blanket cradled against his grandfather’s powerful chest. Tommy walked beside Richard, and the two were talking earnestly. They kept glancing back at House Moore, almost as if they knew she and Amanda spoke of matters regarding life and death.
Owen’s death. Her child, her baby…Her heart wouldn’t stop racing. She wasn’t sure her feet were touching the floor.
“It’s a book of prophecies,” Amanda said gently but firmly, gesturing to the ancient manuscript. “Merlin’s prophecies. And many of them have come true.”
She had fought the voice, and won. It was a secret no longer, despite the pain it was causing. They had to face it.
Had to deal with it.
Had to decide what to do.
Tears streamed down Nicole’s face. “No, you’re wrong. Merlin is a mythical person. It’s a trick. It’s not real.”
“Niki, I’m so sorry,” Amanda said. “But…” She trailed off, as if she couldn’t bear to continue.
“But, Amanda, it’s Owen.” Her face crumpled and she began to let go, to give in to her fear. If she broke down, Amanda would have to pull her together, and maybe it would distract her twin long enough for her to…to what?
No. She had to keep her wits about her. Owen was counting on her.
“It’s Owen,” she managed. Everything inside her was clenched and terrified—bones, blood, soul.
“I know.” Amanda hung her head and began to cry.
“You said yourself the house is evil. That’s an evil book.” Nicole could barely get the words out. The knot in her throat was choking her. She wanted to take the book and throw it out the window, burn it in the fireplace.
“It’s the Book of Merlin, one of the greatest wizards who ever lived,” Amanda replied. She got to her feet and walked to Nicole. “That night, I heard singing. It was Owen, Niki. It was.”
“You said someone grabbed your hand. And Owen was fast asleep.” Nicole seized on the argument like a woman with a noose around her neck pleading for her life. “He was asleep. You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t know what happened. But—”
Nicole whirled around. Amanda’s face was blotched with crying. The sight terrified Nicole; it was as if Amanda had given up all hope.
“And what about the rest of it?” Nicole added quickly. Her voice rose. “He doesn’t have a mark behind his ear. He hasn’t killed anything innocent or otherwise. He hasn’t, Amanda. Admit it!”
Amanda hesitated, and she felt Niki’s desperate surge of hope.
“Maybe the book is wrong,” she ventured, even though her heart was breaking. Because she didn’t think the book was wrong.
Kill Owen? Her sweet little nephew? A baby?
She couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. She couldn’t even see herself doing it; who could? Her father, who was Owen’s grandfather? Tommy? They’d sooner die. Maybe even sacrifice the whole world, rather than harm their baby—for he was theirs now, all of theirs. Maybe they didn’t know who his father was, but Owen was child of their blood.
We can’t do it.
Only one witch she knew would be capable of killing a baby, to keep the coven safe.
“Where is Holly?” she wailed aloud.
“No,” Nicole breathed. She went completely white. “Don’t even speak her name. Please, Amanda.”
“Niki,” Amanda said. “If it must be done, then—”
Suddenly there was shouting. Amanda ran to the window. Niki trailed after, crying.
Below them, in the courtyard, a white Corsa slowed to a stop. The driver’s side door opened, and Amanda caught her breath. If it was Holly—
—but it wasn’t.
Kari Hardwicke stepped out. Kari.
“But she’s dead,” Amanda said.
Nicole gasped. A black cat hopped out of the car, followed by a second. As Nicole flattened her hands on the glass, the cat stopped and looked up at her. Amanda ticked her glance at her twin. Nicole and the cat were staring at each other.
“Amanda,” she ground out. “That’s…”
Nicole couldn’t say Hecate’s name. She had to be wrong. It couldn’t be her wonderful cat, the one Holly had murdered. It couldn’t be, and yet, the delicate head, the way she flicked her tail…it had to be.
“Oh, my God.”
Amanda put her arm around her shoulders. The room felt icy. Nicole couldn’t think. All she could do was stare at the apparition, a flesh-and-blood twin of her dead familiar, Hecate.
“Maybe she had kittens before she…died,” Amanda ventured.
Nicole didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure her heart was still beating as she turned from the window and flew out of the bedroom. She didn’t know if Amanda was following her. All her energy was focused on the little black cat.
She took the servants’ stairs—the circular staircase had been destroyed—and raced from the back section of House Moore into the castle that had been revealed by the fire. She and the others had swept the floor clean of layers of ash and dust. If the great entry hall had been furnished, the fire had erased all trace. All that was left was stonework, including a long table like an altar, and a stone with a deep cleft in it.
She pushed open the stone front door and ran down the stone steps outside, skipping the last two and pushing past Kari, who was wearing all black, including a large pair of dark-rimmed sunglasses. Nicole scooped up the smaller of the two black cats and nuzzled her.
Energy surged between them—faint, but present.
“It’s you, it’s you,” Nicole sang, kissing the top of Hecate’s head, her cheeks, and her front paws. “Oh, Hecate, how?”
The cat didn’t respond. Nicole kissed her over and over, loving her, crying tears of joy now. “Oh, my kitty, my Hecate.” She cried a little more, and then she looked up at Kari.
Kari, who should be dead. Nicole had seen her cut nearly in two. A lake of blood had gushed out of Kari’s chest. And they had left her there. Kari who was standing inside the gate without having been invited in.
“Someone saved you,” Amanda cried. “Oh, thank the Goddess!”
“No one,” Kari said flatly.
Nicole settled Hecate under her chin. Kari was heavily made up, with lots of blush and colored lip gloss. Slowly she took off her sunglasses, and Nicole jerked. Her eyes looked inhuman.
Dead.
“I died,” Kari said.
Amanda, Richard, and Tommy gathered around. In Richard’s arms Owen cooed. Nicole cast an agonized glance at him. Amanda was wrong. She had to be. Had to be.
Had to be. Kari and Hecate must have been sent by the Goddess Herself, to stop them….
“Died?” Tommy said. The other cat approached Nicole and sat down. It tilted back its head and gazed at Hecate. The two meowed.
“Tired,” Kari murmured. She turned and headed up the stairs of the castle. Nicole took Owen out of his grandfather’s arms and held him and Hecate both, trailin
g behind as Amanda walked with Kari up the stairs. It seemed natural for Amanda to take over the hostessing duties. Back home Amanda had been the sweet one, the thoughtful one. Nicole had been too busy starring in school plays and getting what she wanted with magic spells to think of anyone else.
Kari stood statue-still while Amanda opened the heavy stone door leading into the castle. Tommy bounded up the stairs to help her. Without any reaction at all, Kari walked inside.
Amanda looked over her shoulder at Nicole, raised her brows and grimaced, and followed Kari in. Tommy went next. Richard put his hand on Nicole’s shoulder, sliding it down to cup Hecate’s chin. The cat allowed him to study her face.
“Is it really your cat?” he asked his daughter, making as if to take Hecate. “She ran away, right?”
Hecate hissed and dug her claws into Nicole’s Irish wool sweater. Richard grunted and tried again. The cat retracted her claws just long enough to free her front left paw; then she took a swipe at Richard.
“I don’t think you should hold her with Owen in your arms. She might scratch him.”
“No,” Nicole said quickly, but she immediately relented. Her father didn’t know that Holly had killed Hecate. He’d been in a drunken depression then, brought on by the death of Marie-Claire, his wife—Nicole and Amanda’s mother. They knew now that Michael Deveraux had killed her.
“Go to Daddy, Hecate,” Nicole told the cat.
But Hecate wasn’t listening to her. She was staring at Owen, and the baby was just as transfixed. Nicole waited for a sign.
Owen began to cry without breaking his gaze.
Don’t look at him anymore. Don’t, Nicole ordered the cat. Then Hecate growled in protest as Richard scooped her up with a soft pat on her head.
“I wonder how Kari got two cats onto a commercial flight,” he mused.
“I don’t think Kari did,” Amanda said slowly, as she came up beside her father and her sister. “I don’t think Kari’s here.”
