Witch & Curse (3 page)

Holly woke up. As far as she could tell, she lay on the riverbank. The sound of rushing water filled her pounding head; she was shaking violently from head to toe and her teeth were chattering. She tried to move, but couldn't tell if she succeeded. She was completely numb.

“Mmm . . . ,” she managed, struggling to call for her mother.

All she heard, all she knew, was the rushing of the river. And then . . . the flapping of a bird's wings. They sounded enormous, and in her confusion she thought it was diving for her, ready to swoop her up like a tiny, waterlogged mouse.

Her lids flickered up at the sky; a bird did hover against the moon, a startling silhouette.

Then she lost consciousness again. Her coldness faded, replaced by soothing warmth. . . .

The blood is so warm
, she thought, drifting.
See how it steams in the night air
. . . .

Again, the sound of rushing water. Again the deathly chill.

The screech of a bird of prey . . .

Then once more Holly saw the hot, steaming blood—and something new: a vile, acrid odor that reeked of charnel houses and dungeon terrors. Something very evil, very wrong, very
hungry
crept toward her, unfurling slowly, like fingers of mist seeking her out, sneaking over branch and rock to find her wrist, encircle it, enclose it.

Someone—or something—whispered low and deep and seductively,
“I claim thee, Isabeau Cahors, by night and Barley Moon. Thou art mine.”

And from the darkness above the circle a massive falcon dove straight for Pandion, its talons and beak flashing and savage. . . .

“No!” Holly cried into the darkness.

A bird's wings flapped, then were still.

She was shivering with cold; and she was alive.

A brilliant yellow light struck her full force in the face. Holly whimpered as the light moved, bobbing up and down, then lowered as the figure holding it squatted and peered at her.

It was a heavyset woman dressed like a forest ranger. She said, “It's okay, honey, we're here now.” Over her shoulder, she yelled, “Found a survivor!”

A ragged cheer rose up, and Holly burst into frightened, desperate tears.

Seattle, Washington, Lammas

Kari Hardwicke had wrapped herself in a simple, cream-colored robe of lightweight gauze that was totally see-through and that clung everywhere. In her slashed blond hair she had entwined a few wildflowers, and she had bronzed her cheeks and shoulders. Her feet were bare and she had dabbed patchouli oil in all the strategic places.

Spellcasters loved patchouli oil.

Now she curled herself around Jer Deveraux as he brooded silently before her fireplace. He had burst through her door with the storm, fierce and enraged, but he wouldn't tell her what was wrong. He had accepted the glass of cab she offered him and drawn up her leather chair before her fireplace. He sipped, and he fell silent, his dark eyes practically igniting the logs in the fireplace.

Hell hath no fury like Jeraud Deveraux when he's in a temper
.

That made her want him all the more. There was something about Jer she couldn't explain. It wasn't simply his air of command, as if he could make one do his slightest bidding merely by raising one eyebrow. Nor was it his sharp wit, or his drive; the pull he had on almost everyone who knew him; the way he fascinated people, both men and women, who would fall to
discussing him once he had left a room.

It was all that combined with his astonishing looks. His brown-black eyes were set deep into his face beneath dark brown eyebrows. His features were sharply defined, his cheekbones high above hollows shaded by the soft light in the room. Unlike his father and his brother, he was clean shaven; his jaw was sharp and angular, and his lips looked soft. He worked out, and it showed in his broad shoulders, covered for the moment by a black sweater. Like his family members, he wore black nearly all the time, adding to his allure of danger and sensuality.

But it's even more that that
, Kari thought now.
He's . . . how does the old song go?

A magic man
.

Heavy rain rattled the dormer window of her funky student apartment; the storm matched his mood, but she was determined to shake him out of it. It was Lammastide, the witches' harvest night, and she knew he would leave in a while to go perform some kind of ritual with Eli, his brother, and Michael, his father. They were “observant,” as he liked to phrase it… and she wanted him to take her with him tonight. She wanted to know what they did in secret. Their rites, their spells . . . all of it.

The Deveraux men are warlocks
, she thought.

But use that word in front of Jer, and he would deny it.

In the early days of their relationship—a year ago, now, how it had flown!—he had been eager to bring her into the fold. Back then, she was his teaching assistant, and he, a newbie undergrad; after the first time they'd gone to bed together, he had told her he would share his “mysteries” with her. He had hinted about an ancient family Book of Spells.

She was thrilled. She was getting her PhD in folklore, a path she had chosen so that she could investigate magic and shamanism with the full resources of the university behind her. The University of Washington at Seattle treated Native American belief systems with the utmost respect; thus, her field of endeavor was encouraged, and never challenged.

But it wasn't simply Northwestern magic that interested her. She was fascinated by European magic . . . especially black magic. And though, like being a bona fide warlock he denied that his family practiced the Dark Art, she was fairly certain they spent more time in the shadows than they did in the diffuse light of Wicca. Yet she maintained the fiction that he practiced one of the Wicca traditions; it was what he had told her.

“I've dressed like the Barley Maid,” she said now,
moving between him and the fireplace and stretching out her arms to him. He looked startled and—she hated to admit it—irritated by her interruption of his reverie.

Jer, you loved me once
, she thought anxiously.
You were thrilled that a glamorous “older woman” graduate student wanted you, a mere freshman. What did I do wrong?

I want you to come back to me. Not just treading water with me, but back into the deluge, the flood that was all that passion you poured into me. We made such waves . . . we drowned in such amazing ecstasy
. . . .

“I've read that if we make love tonight, whatever spells we cast will be extra powerful.” She smiled lustily.

“That's true,” he said, giving her that much. His smile was gentle, tinged with both sadness and great wisdom. “And you've cast quite a spell on me, Kari. You're beautiful.”

She let herself believe he was sincere, and he rose from his chair, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her into her bedroom.

TWO

WINE MOON

Wine and wisdom go hand in hand
But not while our foes stand
Lord we beg this humble boon
Let us drink of their blood soon

Let us drink of you, Lady bright
Filling our eyes with second sight
Bring us wisdom and let us know
How to bring great kings to woe

Seattle, Washington, August 1 (Lammastide)

Thunder seized the rafters of the Anderson family's Victorian mansion in the Upper Queen Anne area of Seattle and shook them until the century-old timbers bowed and nearly cracked. Skeletal fingers of cold rain rapped the windows, impatiently demanding entrance.

Death wanted in very badly, and Michael Deveraux,
the reigning warlock of the Northwest, was doing all he could to open the door.

Or rather, to burn that door down
, he thought.
By the Horned One, I
will
burn that sucker down. I threw the runes. I read the auguries. They all said the same thing: that tonight's the night I, Michael Robert Deveraux, will conjure the Black Fire
.

And I'll destroy the House of Cathers with it, once and for all
.

Reeling with anticipation, he shut his eyes and made fists against his chest, fingernails gouging his palms. His heart thudded hard and fast like a battle drum; his hot Deveraux blood ran molten through his veins.

It can mean only one thing: It's time for the Deveraux to take over. After centuries of sucking it up and pretending we've accepted defeat, we're going to steal the ball and make that touchdown. We're going all the way. Because baby, we got game
.

Oh, yeah—the boys and I got game
.

This morning at the Dark Hour—3
A.M
.—he had opened his Book of Shadows to the Rites of Lammas Night to prepare for Ritual. Lammas was hallowed; it was the Eve of Harvest. In the old, pagan days, the wheat and grapes had been blessed, the day sanctified
to the Goddess. But in the world Michael worshiped—the mystical Greenwood, home of the Horned One—it was a night for harvesting power . . . and the lives and souls of enemies.

Michael's sons were due home at eleven to participate in the Rites. Now it was nine o'clock, two full hours ahead of schedule. Not wanting to tip them off to the fact that there would be no simple Lammastide for them this year and less than eager to have them present for what he was doing in its stead, he had forbidden them to help with the preparations. Eli had been fine with that—he had no problem letting his father and brother carry the burden of magic use, as long as he continued to reap the benefits in the form of money, women, and cars—but Jeraud had thrown a full-blown tantrum. He had argued violently, slammed things around, glowered and sworn and made a lot of very foolish threats that Michael had ordered him take back for fear of suffering the consequences. Then, mustering all his authority, Michael had told him to get out, backing up the dismissal with the threat of more harmful magics than Jer could even imagine—which had infuriated Jer all the more.

Jer knows something's up. I should have given him more credit, made a better attempt to hide my work. I've been keeping lots of secrets. Well, once tonight is done, he'll understand
that I had to keep my focus. I don't need any distractions. If only he were more like Eli—just plain greedy and simpleminded. No wonder Sasha tried to take him away with her when she left me
.

Michael opened his eyes, smiling grimly at the droplets of blood that had beaded on his palms.

I don't need to share all my power with my ambitious boys. Eli would kill me without a second's hesitation if he thought he could get away with it. Well, the old man's got a lot of years left in him. Centuries, I hope. So watch your back, kids. One step in my direction and I'll annihilate you
.

“Are you watching, Duc Laurent?” he said aloud. “You're finally going to get what you've wanted. I'm going to burn the witch tonight. So forgive and forget, all right? Tonight's the night for Black Fire, and I'll need your help. Your
power
.”

There was no answer. The phantom spirit of Laurent de Deveraux, the noble warlord of the family and dead these nearly seven centuries, had not communicated in any way with Michael for nearly six moons. Michael knew the Duke was livid with him for binding the witch to him “in spirit and heart”—in other words, for beginning an affair with Marie-Claire Cathers-Anderson. During the ancient fertility festival of Imbolc, Michael had put her in thrall, the Lady to the Lord as in the old days of witch and warlock
together. His hope had been to harness the power that was said to erupt when Cahors and Deveraux were joined.

It was a good idea
, he thought.
And it was fun, even if the union didn't result in a magical upgrade, as I'd hoped. So that part of the story must have been simple legend, as Laurent insisted it was
.

He shrugged, wondering if the Duke was watching him. Michael had learned the hard way that his spectral kinsman had his own methods of surveillance.
Too bad she has to die, but at least it'll make Laurent happy. He's been pissed off ever since I started up with her
.