Resurrection (19 page)

Night was falling, shielding the Temple of the Air from the harsh glare of the sun. Those who worshipped the Goddess performed their rites and rituals by moonlight, especially the most solemn and binding.

Standing on the banks of a lake, sandalwood scenting the darkening air, Armand and Pablo kept vigil over Holly as she prepared herself to be put in thrall with her distant cousin Alex Carruthers. Evil was gathering around them like a storm. They had all felt it, seen it—demonic figures in the darkness skulking around them, planning, plotting, waiting. The minions of Sir William.

Alex had managed to send Sir William running, but the battle had been brutal. Four of the Temple of the Air had been killed in the attack. Pablo had been gravely wounded, and although they had done what they could for him, he still moved carefully, so as not to tear open the stomach wound again.

Holly herself was a little faster to mend, but her cracked ribs were still sore and caused her pain with every movement. She hadn't been able to sleep for more than fifteen minutes without reliving the terror of what had happened.

It couldn't happen again. They had to be ready, prepared, stronger than they were now if they hoped to kill Sir William in his demonic form. And he was only the harbinger, the messenger that the darkest of days were upon them.

She and Alex had tossed the runes; they had all seen the signs; and they knew something worse was coming—something terrible, and overwhelming. Something that could end the world as they knew it.

When Alex had first asked Holly to join forces with him back in London, she'd known this day would come. Enthrallment was their only option.

And yet…

Nothing. I have always made the hardest choices. I've done whatever I could to protect my people. I can't do any less to protect my world.

She wore all white, like a bride, and her black curly hair cascaded over her shoulders. A crown of laurel circled her head, and as she faced the dying sun, she wept silently for her hopeless love, for Jeraud Deveraux, who had rejected her.

Jer, her renegade warlock, who had insisted that
he was too tainted by darkness to be joined with her, but she knew he had fought against that darkness all his life. And won. It wasn't Jer the warlock who had turned away from her, but Jer the hideously scarred man.

When he looked in a mirror, he saw a monster. He couldn't believe that when she looked at him, she saw love made flesh—a thing of indescribable beauty. His shame hid the shining mirror of her soul from his eyes. She understood now that love could heal anything, but it was a gift that had to be accepted. If Jer let her love him enough, he would see how handsome he really was.

But he couldn't. Maybe life with Michael and Eli had broken him beyond repair.

I don't believe that. There is no one on this earth who can't be saved by love—

No, I don't believe
that,
either. I've done terrible things, sacrificed loved ones…. I bargained with the Goddess, and with Catherine, to give me enough power to save other loved ones. I can't be forgiven. I knew what I was doing, and I did it willingly.

“Holly,” Alex said softly, coming up behind her. “It's almost time.” She heard the eagerness in his voice. Kneeling on the ground on either side of her with swords planted in the ground, Armand and Pablo shifted.

She turned her back on the sun, wishing that moonrise would never come. No, that wasn't so; she was eager too. They could weave stronger magic if they worked together, bound themselves each to the other….

He was handsome, and he was good. Dressed all in white like her—a white tunic over leggings, very medieval, like her white shift. Warmth radiated from him as he protected himself against the bitter cold. He, too, wore a crown of laurel, magically conjured, like their clothes.

“I know,” he said gently, cupping her cheek. His hand was warm satin. He smelled of cleansing cinnamon. “About Jer. And your love for him.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “It'll fade. In time.”

“No, don't let it fade,” he said. “Love is powerful. We'll need all the power we can muster, for the coming days.”

It was as if he had read her mind. Perhaps he had.

“But we'll be in thrall,” she said as shadows lengthened and trickled around her feet, spreading over the glassy surface of the lake, and reminding her of the pools of blood they had seen in their attacks on the strongholds of the Supreme Coven. Once they were bound, there would be more blood, and more carnage. They would bring death. When would it end?

“You'll know that I'm thinking of him, not you.”

“Holly, we follow
Notre Dame,
the Lady Mother, who loves all Her children equally,” he reminded her. “I can rise above my petty jealousies.”

But you hated him,
she thought.
I saw how much. And I know he hates you.

He didn't respond. Maybe he couldn't read her thoughts after all.

The sun winked out, disappearing behind the craggy mountaintops. Armand and Pablo got to their feet and faced the couple. The four stood quietly, waiting for the moon to rise, and the enthrallment to begin. Somewhere in the gathering darkness were Alex's followers, keeping watch against the things that would try to stop this bonding.

“Give me your sword,” Alex ordered Armand.

The Spanish witch hesitated. He looked at Holly for a long time, as if to ask,
Are you certain?

Sometime: Sasha

Sasha screamed in frustration as she rained her fists on solid walls of colored crystal. She had pulled Eli and Philippe from the lake and had just made it to shore when she had suddenly disappeared. She must have hit the magical time device against something, because it had started spinning so fast that she couldn't even tell in which direction. Her fingers were bleeding where they had finally caught and stopped the moons.

Now she lay inside what appeared to be a cave made out of crystal. Was this the distant past or the far future? She had no way of telling, and if she spun the moons, she risked choosing wrong and sending herself even farther in the wrong direction.

There was a sudden flash and a man appeared before her, wearing long dark robes spangled with comets, moons, and suns brushing the prismatic surface beneath her elbows. His face was angular and powerful, though lined, and his hair and long beard were white.

He bent down, and she thought he meant to help her up. But before she could stop him, he pried the device from her hand.

“Thank you, my dear.” He spoke in a British accent as he clutched the moon-spinner against his chest.

“For what?” But she knew. She looked at the time machine in his arms.

“Returning that which is rightfully mine.” He ran his long forefinger over the moons. “My brothers stole it from me so very long ago.”

“Your brothers.”

“Yes.” He didn't elaborate.

“When am I?” she asked.

He smiled. “Strictly speaking, we're outside of time. Trapped. Frozen.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“That is the first question you should have asked me,” he said with a bow. “I am Gushnasaph.”

She blinked. The name meant nothing to her, and yet obviously he expected that it would. She shook her head.

He raised himself up proudly. “The fourth Magi, the one who gave the Christ child silver.”

“There were only three wise men,” she said.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse, and his eyes flashed darkly. “Perhaps, then, you know me by the name those barbarian Britons called me. Myrddin.”

That name she did know. Shuddering, she stared up into the eyes of the dark wizard Merlin and knew with dawning horror that she was about to die.

The Twelfth Century, Scarborough Fair: Pandion

There was a hanged man in a gibbet; he was not mentioned in the song. There was treachery, duplicity; there was a change. Time was forced, as if by a device. The scales were altered.

Flying high above the fair, Pandion, spirit familiar of the Cahors, squeed in dismay and knew that once upon a time she'd had a mate, most beloved. And with that falcon lord, she had created life.

Gone, all to dust.

Robbed.

Destroyed.

She would avenge.

Near Mumbai: Jer and Eve

“No,” Jer groaned, sliding and stumbling on the massive roots of a banyan tree hugging the churning river. “We have to stop them.”

Eve turned around and frowned uneasily at him. “Jer, what's happening? What do you see?”

“I see,” he began, and then he slid again, backward, backward, backward in time:

 

Moonlight and firelight gleamed across the courtyard of Castle Deveraux. The great stone gargoyles that had haunted Jean's childhood nights stared down at the assembly, fire pouring from their snouts. Torch flames whipped in the warm air, and great bonfires flared from the tunnels leading down to the dreaded dungeons, infamous throughout France as bastions of unspeakable cruelty.
Woe betide him who crosses a Deveraux,
went the saying, and it was true. The Cahors had been wise to entangle their fate with the Deveraux, now that they knew the Deveraux had achieved the creation of Black Fire. They would be loath to have it used against them.

As was the custom of the day, Isabeau joined Jean
in front of the closed chapel doors. Men and women married before church doors; thus it was no insult to the bishop that they did not go inside the church. On this night of the Blood Moon, the two stood facing each other before banks of lilies and twining ivy. Lilies were the flower of the Cahors, and ivy, of the Deveraux. The magical birds Fantasme and Pandion, greenwood familiars of Deveraux and Cahors respectively, were present, each preening on a beautifully decorated perch. Loose them, and they would kill each other.

Isabeau was like a fantastic she-dragon, dressed as the mighty lady she was, and would become, in ebony shot with silver thread. But she trembled like a shy virgin, and by the light of the full moon he saw how pale she was beneath her black and silver veil.

How long will you be my lady?
he wondered silently.
How long before our Houses feud once more, and I poison or behead you, or burn you at the stake?

At this she looked up at him, her eyes flinty. She didn't blink, didn't waver as he returned her gaze. Her eyes glowed a soft blue. The air between them thrummed with tension. He was delighted; this lady had a spine, by the God! He'd best look to his own person, or
she
would be the one to do
him
in.

He chuckled low in his throat, then turned his attention to his father.

As the two houses chanted in Latin and languages even more ancient, Laurent held his athame at the ready, preparing to cut open the wrists of the marrying couple. The hood of his dark crimson robe concealed his face, and he towered like a dark statue before the altar. Isabeau's mother, Catherine, also wore black and silver.

It was a glorious sight for those assembled, and power and passion flared and rose between the young couple as they were joined, soul to soul, until the end of days. Their wrists were cut, and blood mingled together in flesh and into flesh as Laurent and Catherine bound their children's left arms together with cords soaked in herbals and unguents designed to ensure fertility. Both Houses were strong and boasted many young ones, but those of the Coventry were scattered throughout the land, and there could never be enough witches and warlocks in France to please either family.

And then Jean was touched by the devil witch herself, Catherine. The woman who would massacre his family, and forge the vendetta that would chase Isabeau and him through time and space.

I have the means to prevent it,
he thought, feeling the dagger that, suddenly, hung from a chain around his neck. Wild magic had put it there; and it was hidden by the rich fabric of his doublet, the blade so sharp it sliced the hairs on his chest.
I can plunge this into her heart, and end it before it begins.

He saw himself tearing open his doublet and grabbing the dagger, running Isabeau through—

No, not Isabeau,
he protested.
It is Catherine I mean to slay.

Then he blinked, realizing something was amiss with him. He was Jean, and yet not Jean. He looked to his father, Duc Laurent, and spotted a figure standing a great distance away, a woman he knew, a woman who was crying. Her name was…What was her name?

Sasha?

Attends,
wait,
he thought, suddenly confused.
My mother…My mother is dead.

“
Ma mère?
” he whispered, to himself, not to her.

The assembly stirred. Jean de Deveraux's mother and stepmothers were dead. Everyone knew the duke had killed them when he'd tired of them.

The Duc himself stared at Jean, and Jean felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Something was very wrong…and he thought his father knew what it was.

Thunder boomed, lightning flashed, and the torches flared like comets. Isabeau's hand tightened around his, and through her veils he saw a death's head.

He heard his father laughing. Heard him whispering in his ear, “I will outlive you, whelp. You and my other prince and all my bastards. I have tilted the scales, once and for all, I and my minions. There is no balance,
and never will be again. Chaos is my nation, and I am her lord and master.”

Jean swayed. He felt as if he were dissolving into ether. What mischief was this?

“My lord?” Isabeau whispered anxiously, her white face hidden by veils of darkness and shadow. “How is it with you?”

Je m'appelle Jeraud,
he thought. My name is Jeraud.

He turned and looked over at the crying woman.
We don't belong here,
he thought.

Then he felt other eyes on him, from above: He gazed up at the steeple of the church to see
her
there, Karienne, his mistress of long standing. How defeated she looked, even haggard. He'd offered her to a nobleman, to make certain her way was easy. She was to leave tonight. Her things were packed, and they'd bade one another
adieu.
In bed.

She was magnificent.

She's Kari. A grad student. By the God, I
killed
her. I slit her throat! And that woman is my mother, Sasha Deveraux.

His knees buckled, and the spectators gasped.

 

“Jer?” Eve said as she peered at him, standing stock-still.

“He's changed time,” Jer told her, trembling. “He's cheating.” He skirted around the slippery slope he'd failed to climb and spotted a rockier path toward
the summit. “Come on. We have to hurry. We have to stop him.”

“Him who? What?” She hesitated for a second, then followed after him. “Eli?”

“Come on.” Thunder rumbled, and lightning sliced the night as Jer scrabbled over the rocks like a madman. He had to stop Holly. Had to save her.

“Jer?” Eve was struggling to keep up with him.

“Damn you.
Vite!
” he screamed at her.

Outside Mumbai:
Holly, Alex, Pablo, Armand, and the Temple of the Air

Did Jer's voice echo off the black mountains?

“It is done, my love,” Alex said to Holly. Alex, who was the lord to her lady, her thrallmate, closer to her than anyone in the world. Closer—

And then she knew, as the evil poured out of him and rushed into her soul. As his contamination ruined her.

As she was damned.

“No,” she whispered, trying to step away from him. But his gaze held her in place. “Please.”

But she was in thrall to him—the great enemy of the Cahors, warlock, mage son of the Lost Son of Light: demon, devil. Brilliance blazed around him; he stood in the center of a sphere of light so white that it was blue; and then the colors shifted and changed like the northern lights. He was magnificent, and terrible.

Duc Laurent, of House Deveraux, dead these many centuries.

His face changed; shadows and angles and sharp features cracked the softness, and his smile was a filthy leer. He reached out a hand and cupped Holly's chin, grinning down at her body. Paralyzed, she was forced to endure his touch, and then his kiss.

Pablo, Armand,
she pleaded.

Shadows flew across the moon, and the cawing of a thousand crows, a million, screeched in her ears. The ground shook, and she would have fallen to her knees if Alex—Laurent—hadn't moved his hand, and kept her upright through magic alone.

Then through the screaming of the crows she heard Jer shouting her name.

“You are in thrall with me, the lady to the lord,” Laurent said to her. “You know the curse: Those who love the Cahors witches die by drowning. He loves you.”

No,
she thought.
No.

“He loves you and he always has. It is the curse of my bloodkin to fall in love with you witchwomen. Jean first and now this idiot. He could have ruled a kingdom, a
world,
but instead…he fell in love with
you.
”

Jer, run,
she called to him.

“He is cursed to die by drowning.” He smiled at her. “You do it, Holly. Drown him. Take Jer Deveraux
under the water and send his warlock soul straight to hell.”

I refuse.

He murmured under his breath, and hot whispers skittered through her bloodstream, heating her veins. Her muscles jerked; she tried to shake her head, refuse him. But as he stepped back, she spun around and charged at Jer, who was running toward her. Eve, the warlock, was with him.

She flew at him. If he smiled, his face was such a ruin that she couldn't tell. Superhuman strength propelled her into his arms; then she shoved him backward, hard, and they both shot into the lake. Down she pushed him, down, harder. Crows covered the moon. Eve was screaming. Pablo and Armand splashed into the water after her.

Kill him. Drown him.
Yes, she wanted to. He deserved it. For all the misery he had brought her, hunting her through the centuries. No rest. Forever feeling his wrath, hateful and relentless.

Yes, yes,
Duc Laurent urged her.

She couldn't see him in the black water. She didn't need to breathe. But he would. He did. She grabbed his arms and held them against his body; then she covered his mouth with hers, and sucked all the air out of his body.

Die, Jean,
she thought.
Die, as you should have when
my family attacked your family's castle. When I crept out of our marriage bed to leave you to the flames, and then told you to run. Instead you hunted me down, tried to kill me when I'd risked all for you. Die. Damn you to hell and back.

He went limp. She smiled. She had fulfilled her lord's will. Laurent, her love…

No!
He was not her love. He was
not
. Jer…She was killing
Jer
.

She grabbed him and forced the air back into his lungs. Nothing happened. He dangled limply in the water.

No, help me, no,
she begged, kicking her legs as she fought back to the surface. The face of the Goddess gazed down on her, demanding another bargain, a sacrifice, in return for the power to save Jer's life.

“No,” Holly said, gasping, as she broke the surface. “I'm done with you. Done.”

Weak moonlight revealed Jer, lying facedown in the water. Crying out, she flipped him onto his back and headed toward shore. The crows were attacking Pablo, Armand, and Eve. The three had created a magical barrier, but she could see that the crows were pecking at it. Laurent stood apart, laughing.

“You are my lady,” he said in a booming voice. “And you've killed him.”

No,
she thought.
No.
But Jer trailed behind her in the water, limp and unresponsive.

Somehow she dragged him to shore. Her dress hung in tatters around her legs as she straddled him, putting her ear to his mouth. He wasn't breathing. There was no pulse.

He was dead.

 

Our God can raise him up from the dead,
Pablo thought to her as he, Armand, and Eve focused their magical power on the invisible barrier between Laurent Deveraux's crows and them.
Let Him in, and He will do it.

Pablo watched as Holly began CPR, lamenting that she would cast her magical powers away at such a crucial moment. Armand glanced at him; they were thinking the same thing.

Then Eve shouted, “Damn it, Holly, bring him back!”

 

And suddenly light poured from Holly's body and covered Jer like a shroud. Or maybe a warming blanket. She lost sight of him. Searching wildly, her fingers touched soft, smooth skin, and the familiar angles and hollows of his features—all the scars gone, whole and healed.

Oh, I love you, I love you. I could never kill you,
she thought. But she had. He was dead.

I take it back. Take back time, or take my soul; take whatever you want, only save him.

She saw Catherine, mother of Isabeau, in her black and silver gown, heavily veiled. She was standing in a dungeon, with a dagger in her hand. She held it out, and in her mind Holly reached out her palm. Catherine sliced open Holly's hand.

I will come to you, and demand my price then. And you will pay it.

Holly watched her blood well along the wound in her palm.
Yes, yes, I will,
she swore.
Only save him.

The blood flared into fire. It ran along her hand like ignited gunpowder. Instantly unbearable pain shot through her; she smelled her own flesh burning. Smelled her hair. Her
teeth
. Her bones.