At the party after the joining ritual, Skye had had too much spiced wine to drink—she wasn’t accustomed to drinking at all—and she had flirted outrageously with a visitor from out of town, the witch Estefan Montevideo. The Spaniard had worn a fantastic black tux with a black rosebud, all bad-boy shadow against the frou-frou light green dress that Melody had forced Skye to wear as her honor attendant. With her crown of pastel flowers and ribbons, Skye had looked like an escapee from a Renaissance fair. But it was a look Estefan had liked. A lot.
After he’d come up to her with a glass of wine, she’d decided not to go and immediately change into her black leather corset, red petticoats, and black buckled boots, which had been her original plan. Before she even knew what was happening, she was dancing the tango—and she never danced—in the silver high heels she had sworn to burn as soon as Melody and Llewellyn Highfall had sworn to be faithful to one another as long as love would last.
Then Estefan uncorked the bottle of Spanish orujo he’d brought, and soon she was hiding behind one of the large Stonehenge stones, throwing back shots with him and his three Coven brothers from Spain. They were from Cádiz. Estefan said magick was so common there that there was a pentagram on the floor of the Catholic church. The way he talked—relaxed, fun-loving, and filled with life—Skye could almost forget that the Cursed Ones were taking over the world and that they hated witches, whom they feared. He made her parents’ plans to stop using magick sound ridiculous.
“It is only through our magick that we’ll be safe from los Malditos,” he insisted. He stared hard at her. “And I would use every bit of magick I have to keep you safe, cielito.” Little sky.
It was such a macho, exciting thing to say. The magicks of love and desire swirled in the summer breezes that wafted around Stonehenge, and Skye fell for him, hard. With his sexy Spanish accent and his buff, cut body, he was impossible to resist. They spent the last hour of the party making out. She was not even fourteen—she hadn’t even been on a date—and her parents would have gone ballistic if they’d known he was eighteen.
That was reason enough to keep their relationship a secret. On the next full moon Estefan had revealed to her that he was what White Witches termed a Dark Witch—a witch who served Pan, god of the forest, and not the Goddess. She was shocked, but also thrilled by just how inappropriate he was. Besides, she was so in love with him that he could have been a full warlock and she wouldn’t have cared.
Of course, she’d had to hide their relationship from her parents. It was easy: The Yorks were distracted by the increasing threat the Cursed Ones posed on Witchery—since witches could detect the presence of vampires—and, curiously, gave Skye more freedom than she was used to. So she saw more of Estefan, who kept pressuring her to worship the moon with his coven brothers and himself.
Since Estefan’s transplanted coven celebrated Moon later in the evening than Skye’s, she had time to finish her obligation and then join him. His coven met in the woods, under cover of darkness, all masked. White Witches never wore masks, but Estefan told her that masks were traditional, because centuries before, the White Witches had persecuted the Dark Witches—in fact, the White had originated the term “Dark”—and they had been as intolerant of the worship of Pan as the Catholic Church had been of witchcraft.
The ritual had been almost identical to Skye’s, except that Pan received the honors instead of the Lady Goddess. She had remained silent during the chants, and no one had minded. When Estefan had called her the next morning, he had told her she’d been magnífica. She felt magnífica . . . blissful and filled with light, not darkness.
Magnífica. Every time she was with him, her feet barely touched the ground, and she’d been so happy she would nearly burst into tears. He drove her around London in a Jaguar, and he was beyond rich. Skye’s parents believed that the blessing of magickal powers could be used only to benefit others, and not oneself. They lived off what her parents made at mundane jobs—her father was a software engineer, and her mother owned a bakery. Estefan said that was ridiculous. The only traditional rule of witchcraft was “An it harm none, do what thou wilt.” What would it hurt anyone to become wealthy?
So he had used magick to get rich—she wasn’t sure exactly how—and he showered her with presents: very high-end goth clothes; a bit of steampunk; and fabulous boots, shoes, and a magick wand said to have belonged to Iphigenia de la Tour, a famous witch who had lived in Paris during the Belle Epoque—the early part of the twentieth century. She squirreled it all away so her parents wouldn’t ask questions. He adored her, loved her; she superheated his Spanish blood. He wanted her to handfast with him so that he could protect her from the Cursed Ones. She could still live at home with her parents; who had to know that they were joined? These were wild times, calling for wild work.
Her two best girlfriends, the twins Soleil and Lune, could hardly stand how jealous they were. What magicks had she woven at Midsummer Moon to snag such a hottie?
Then it was September, and she snuck out to celebrate the vernal equinox with Estefan. But this time she didn’t remember what had happened. She woke up in her bed, having no memory of getting there, and she had a tattoo at the small of her back—a Valentine’s heart carried in the mouth of a gargoyle. It was about two inches by two inches, and it was similar to the symbol used by the Cursed Ones—a flying bat carrying a heart.
She called Estefan, who laughed. “You wanted it. You asked for it, borachín,” he’d told her. Little drunk one. “We went to a tattoo shop.”
She was horrified. Soleil and Lune tried to erase it with magicks, but nothing worked, and it itched terribly as it healed.
Next she began to have horrible nightmares about masked balls that she and Estefan attended, in dank underground caves decorated with scarlet tapestries and lit with torches. She was dressed in full black-and-purple ball gowns, and he wore all black. Everyone else there was a vampire . . . and Estefan drank blood with them, and tried to force her to do it, too.
Each time he brought the cup to her lips, she woke up. At home. In her own bed. The tattoo on her back burning.
After a week of nightmares she was exhausted, and she looked horrible—circles under her eyes, her face breaking out. Having no idea of the cause, Melody and her parents performed healing spells on her, but nothing worked. Soleil and Lune told her that if she didn’t break up with Estefan, they would tell her parents about him.
Desperate, still in love, she went to Estefan and told him what was happening. He wound his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He whispered in her ear, “In these dreams of yours, what would happen if you did drink the blood, mi amor?” And his teeth against her earlobe pricked a bit sharply.
And she knew, then, that his magicks were entwined with the Cursed Ones. She didn’t know exactly how, but she knew he wasn’t just a bad boy. He was a bad man, and dangerous, and she had to get away from him.
But somehow there she was, in front of the Hell Fire Caves of her dreams, dressed in a tight purple corset laced with black, over black petticoats trimmed in purple, a black ritual cape wadded in her arms. Her thick-soled boots came up over her knees. The other girls present were much sexier, in plunging black gowns and high, spiked heels. They already had on their masks, and she didn’t know if she knew any of them. That was the point. None of the girls from her coven should be here. She could admit the truth—this was not even dark magick; it was black.
I shouldn’t have come, Skye thought miserably, holding the cape against her chest as she studied the mask. I should have broken up with him over the phone.
But the truth was, she’d been afraid to. If she pissed him off, what would he do?
“Tonight,” he said, as he placed the mask against her face and tied it in place with black ribbons. “We’ll handfast. Let me help you with your cloak.”
The others grinned at her as they glided past into the entrance of the cave. Anticipation swirled in the night air; the moon glowed down on Estefan’s blue-black ha
ir, and for an instant, crimson light danced in his eyes. His teeth . . . were they long and sharp?
Oh, my Goddess, she thought, is he a vampire?
Wouldn’t she know? Couldn’t witches sense the presence of Cursed Ones as vampires in turn sensed them? Wasn’t that why the vampires hated them?
“Vámonos, mi amor,” he murmured lustily. “Let’s make it happen.”
“Make wh-what happen?” Her voice rose shrilly, and she glanced in the direction of the cave. Red and orange lights lit up the entrance like the gate to hell. She stumbled backward, afraid. “Estefan? What’s going on?”
He narrowed his eyes, and suddenly the handsome male witch was something else entirely, something she had suspected lay beneath his charm. It was as if he had taken off a mask and finally shown her his true face. And it was evil.
“We really went, didn’t we?” she whispered. “To those parties.”
He slid his black half mask, the twin of hers, over his face as he walked toward her. “It won’t hurt,” he said.
Her heart pounded as she stumbled backward. She knew to the depths of her soul that he was lying. It would hurt. A lot.
Something moved in her peripheral vision. Three hooded, masked figures were emerging from the cave, carrying torches. She recognized their silhouettes—they were Estefan’s Spanish coven mates, coming to help him, coming for her. Had this been the plan all this time?
Estefan took her hand. “You’ll be safe,” he said.
“Because I’ll be one of them?” Cold dread flooded through her. She could feel herself going frozen, unable to move as he cast a spell on her. Summoning her own magick, she fought his mesmerizing touch, concentrating on the danger she was in.
“We won’t be Cursed Ones exactly. They want magick users on their side, helping them. We’ll be changed, but not converted.” He seemed unaware of the spell she was desperately weaving. Could it be that he was so much more powerful than she was that her magicks were beneath his notice?
“Ay, hermosa, mi dulce, mi alma,” he whispered, all the sweet nothings he’d whispered in her ear those past months, softening her up, making her believe that he loved her.
“Did you . . . did you make some kind of deal?” She wouldn’t look at him. He could bewitch her more fully if he could catch her gaze.
“Sí, but it will benefit you, too,” he replied. His hand tightened around her hand, sliding up to encircle her wrist. “Escúchame. Listen to me. They’re going to take over this world. It’s inevitable. But those of us who side with them, who become like them, we’ll be okay.” She heard the certainty in his voice.
“No, oh, no.” She tugged on his hand. “No, please.”
He touched her hair with his free hand. “It will be over very fast. I promise.”
“It’s over now,” she said. And from somewhere deep inside her, fury boiled up in a seething geyser of magick. She could almost see it as it traveled through her physical body, then into the immaterial plane where magick acquired its force.
To her astonishment it manifested as a ball of fire that burst from her free hand and slammed into his masked face. The flames danced across the black velvet, and Estefan released her, shrieking and grabbing at the fabric.
His coven brothers raced toward them. Skye screamed and turned on her heel, running away as fast as she could, begging the Goddess to help her, save her. Balls of fire crashed to her left and right, and at her heels, but she kept running, whispering to the Lady in Latin, “Conservate me! Conservate me! Conservate me!”
Protect me.
Heaving, her lungs stinging, she reached the main road and hitched a ride home. As soon as she crossed the threshold of her family’s ivy-covered brick cottage, her cell phone rang.
“Better run,” Estefan ground out in a hoarse, wounded voice. “Run fast. And far.”
THE PRESENT: NEW ORLEANS
SKYE
And she had run . . . to Salamanca, for protection. She figured that the Spanish Academia would be the best place to hide from a Spanish Dark Witch, and that she would learn how to protect herself with new magicks. She hadn’t fully understood what the training entailed—hadn’t realized that she would become the target of even more enemies once she became a member of a hunting team.
Worse, on the first night she was there, he had come to her in a dream. They were at a glittering masked ball, illuminated with candles and torchlight, and he held up the cup . . .
She woke up panting. A week later she received a postcard from Cádiz. When she read it, she heard his voice—a bit of magick: “I won’t give up, mi amor. I still love you.”
Gasping aloud, she ripped the postcard into dozens of pieces and fed each one to a votive candle flame placed before the statue of the Virgin Mary in the university chapel. The Virgin was the Goddess, in her eyes. And the Goddess would help her become the Hunter, able to fend off any attack Estefan might launch.
Because he didn’t love her. He wanted to use her.
A month later a second postcard had arrived:
“Love never dies.”
Six months later another postcard, whispering threats cloaked as words of love. “I will come for you.”
A year later another.
“Para siempre.” Forever.
But he never attempted to approach her, and she hadn’t heard from him in eight months. She figured she’d been right—there was safety in numbers.
Her parents had neither understood nor approved when she’d left to join the academy. Like Jenn’s parents, they’d been against it. Witches didn’t fight people, and they certainly didn’t participate in wars. They remained neutral, focusing on healing the wounds to bodies and souls, to the ether of magick, and to Mother Earth. It was anathema to a witch to do violence. If Skye’s parents had known about the fireball she’d flung at Estefan, they might have gone as far as to disown her. In their eyes conjuring weapons was that wrong.
She was the only witch ever known to have studied at the academy. Antonio had helped her study old magicks from spell books they found in the dusty archives of the library. Centuries old, the vellum pages crackled with incantations written by Spanish witches—many of whom the Inquisition had burned at the stake.
Both Antonio and Father Juan assured Skye that although she hadn’t become the Hunter, she was just as valuable. Word of a White Witch Salamancan got around, and she was contacted by the Circuit, a loose international confederation of younger witches—some White, some Dark, and even some who followed the Black Arts—who believed that a neutral position regarding the vampires was in itself a harmful act. They couldn’t stand passively by while the Cursed Ones toppled governments and murdered people. Soleil and Lune had also joined, and they sent Skye updates on her parents.
She wanted to tell Antonio about Estefan, but one of the questions put to applicants to the academy was “Do you have any enemies who might blackmail you or otherwise pressure you to turn against the cause?” And she had lied and said no. Now she was ashamed to confess it, which was one of the reasons she kept her distance from Father Juan. He scared her a little. Actually, a lot. And she was halfway certain that he already knew much more about her than she’d ever wanted him to. She hadn’t told him about the Circuit, either, because the witches had promised to keep it secret from the world.
But Antonio was kind to her and spent hours coaching her with her magicks. He was religious in the extreme—he had been studying to become a Catholic priest when he’d been converted; the irony was not lost on her—but he wasn’t all mystical and mysterious like Father Juan. He told her that he prayed for each person on the team every night, and she believed that his prayers did keep them safe. She felt a bond with him. She didn’t love him the way she loved Jamie—a love she couldn’t really explain—and that, actually, was one of the reasons she liked Antonio so much. Trusted him.
And now, in the sewer of the French Quarter, she had placed her trust in these two members of the Circuit, previously just names in a chat room: the dusky
-hued White Witch named Mikhu, and Theo, a hot voodoo bokor—practitioner—who both lived in New Orleans and confirmed that a new vampire doyenne—queen—was in town. They didn’t know if her name was Aurora, but they did know she was here for a reason, and they were helping Skye get ready to meet her. As prickles of magick darted over her skin, she envisioned the triple face of the Goddess—maid, matron, and crone—visible in a multitude of aspects from butterflies to rainbows, and held the image of her own face changing in response to her own need.
“Okay, you look great, which means that you look hideous,” said Mikhu, as she and Theo stood back and admired their work. Skye had conjured the original glamour spell on herself, and the witch and the bokor had given it a boost. She would need all the magickal help she could get to pass as a vampire in a vampire stronghold.
“Now the final test,” Theo said, holding up a mirror. “Work it, cher.”
Skye summoned energy all around her, willing a barrier of seeing between herself and the glass. It worked. No reflection appeared—or rather, there was a reflection there, but no one could see it. She lowered the spell, and her face appeared, sweetheart-shaped, her rasta braids intact.
Once she had fled a man who wanted to turn her into a vampire, or something very nearly resembling one. But now she magickally forced a red glow into her eyes and willed her teeth to lengthen. With the full force of White magick behind her, she assumed the appearance of a Cursed One with the bloodlust on her.
Then, with the help of her two friends, she wove an attraction spell, encouraging anyone near, be they human or vampire, to seek her out.
“Whew, I feel it,” Mikhu told her. “Hey, femme magique, take a walk on the wild side?”
Skye grinned feebly. She raised her eyes at Theo, who let his tongue hang out of his mouth.
“You got the juice, cher,” he assured her. “You are a total everything magnet.”
“Okay. Well,” she said. She took a deep breath. “I’d better get going.”
Crusade Page 20
