Books by Maggie Shayne (66 page)

Power flooded into the four women. They all felt it and, suddenly, felt each other in a way they never had. Celeste sensed, saw, heard, smelled, experienced and…
knew
, everything that the others did. It wasn't like losing her individuality but more like gaining a missing part of herself. And each of her cousins' powers, and of her ancestors' powers, became her powers. And hers became theirs. They were one force, one being.

And Celeste saw Ben looking at her, his face wild with wonder. So she glanced down at herself and saw that she was…glowing.

He started forward, instinctively wanting to defend her. But she spoke to him with her mind.
It's all right. We're all right. Take care of the others, Ben. Don't let them die.

His eyes widened, but he nodded his acceptance. He quickly moved to the center of the room, grabbed Luke under the arms and hauled him away from the action, out of the line of fire.

Around the four women were countless others. Shapes in the mist, ancestors, witches all. Celeste felt them, heard them, whispering spells and incantations, lending their own brand of magic and power to that of their descendants.

And then she felt something else. Darien, gathering his strength, knowing that without the Stone, they couldn't hope to defeat him.

"We need the Stone," Celeste whispered as Darien lifted his hands to aim a killing blast at the witches. "Solange…"

"Solange!" they all said in unison.

Before they could finish the summons, Solange appeared there right in front of them, the Stone in her ghostly hands, above her head, like a trophy. Darien's bolt hit it, and bounded back on him.

"Stop attacking us, Darien," Solange whispered. "You'll only succeed in destroying yourself."

"We're one now," Celeste said, though her voice sounded like a chorus of voices. Stronger than any power could be alone."

"Damn you, Solange," Darien screamed. "If I can't have you, no one will!"

He hurled another bolt at her, and this time, every witch in the room swooped around her, each of them touching the Stone of Power with her essence, if not her actual hand. The Stone glowed with the power they channeled into it, and this time when the wizard's bolt hit, it was absorbed. It glowed from within the Stone for an instant, then reemerged magnified, gleaming white lightning. It hit Darien full in the chest, and he shimmered for only a moment, then disintegrated into a million sparkling bits of light and color.

For a moment there was only silence. Then Solange said, "Go into the light, Darien. Into the arms of the spirit, and heal, and learn, and renew. I forgive you."

The sparkles vanished, rising into a beam of light that shone down through the missing roof of the hotel.

It seemed a weight and a darkness left the room as he did. And suddenly, the roof was intact again, the ballroom restored to order, as if nothing had ever happened, and the fire outside was gone. Ben was helping the other men to their feet. They all looked stunned, shocked, but physically, all right. And they kept their distance, in reverence or respect or maybe fear of all the ghosts surrounding the women.

Solange looked at her four offspring with pride and love shining from her eyes. "Release the spirits you raised, girls. People will be coming soon, and you'll have far too much explaining to do if they find you surrounded by ghosts."

The women joined hands again, closed their eyes. Celeste whispered, "Thank you dear ones for your presence, your magic and your aid. Go in peace and with our love. Hail and farewell."

"Hail and farewell," the others repeated.

With teary smiles and beaming eyes, the spirits fled into the void, whispering their love, their blessings, their goodbyes. Then the four cousins waved their hands over the hole in the floor, the portal to the Underworld, and closed it again. Solange knelt and drew symbols in the air over it to keep it that way.

Then she rose and turned toward the window. "It will be dawn soon." She smiled at them. "I want to be at the house when he comes. Will you come with me? Oh, my Jonathon simply has to see what our love has done for the world."

"Of course we'll come with you, Solange." Celeste looked at the men, who stood in awe at the far side of the room. "If…you'll come with us," she added.

She knew her cousins were worried, as she was, that tonight's events would send the men screaming to the far ends of the earth. But they didn't. They crossed the room, instead, each gathering his witch into his arms.

As he held her close to him, Ben whispered to Celeste, "Ask me again if I believe in magic."

"But you made me promise to stop asking you."

He shook his head. "I was an idiot. I'm sorry I doubted you, honey. I'll never doubt you again. Not about anything, magic or otherwise."

"It didn't matter to me, you know. All that mattered was that you loved me."

Ben stared down at her in wonder. "That was never a question, Celeste. And never will be."

He kissed her, then closed his hand around hers, and led her from the hotel ballroom.

* * *

They sat in pairs, in the library on the second floor, where the portraits of the Deveaux ancestors lined the walls. And right on schedule, as the sun rose up, Jonathon appeared, seemed to step out of his own portrait and onto the carpeted floor. He looked around at the couples gathered there, then his gaze found Solange, and it never flickered again.

"Oh, my love," he cried. "How I treasure these fleeting glimpses of you. I love you still, Solange. Can you hear me? I love you!"

Solange smiled, tears filling her eyes as she moved forward. "Not fleeting, my love. Not fleeting anymore." She went to him even as he gaped in wonder, and then overwhelming joy.

He opened his arms, and Solange went into them, two ghostly forms embracing as if they would never part.

"Our great-granddaughters broke the curse," Solange told him, though her voice was broken by tears. "And they set Darien free from the evil that held him for so long."

"I hope he finds the peace he never found in life," he said softly. Turning, he smiled at each of the girls. "Thank you, Granddaughters. You'll never know what this means to us."

Hugging Ben closer, Celeste said, "I think maybe we do."

"Maybe you do, at that." Jonathon eyed the men. "These are special women. Cherish them for what they are. Don't try to change them."

"Never," Travis said, his eyes locked on Eve.

"They wouldn't be the women we fell in love with if we did," Luke said, caressing Rory's cheek.

"And we'll never stop cherishing them," Nic put in, a hand resting protectively on Skye's shoulder.

Jonathon nodded, seemingly satisfied with their answers. He glanced at Ben. "And you, son?"

"Celeste taught me to believe in magic," he said, turning to gaze into her eyes. "It's a gift I can never repay, but I'll spend my life trying."

Jonathon smiled. "Good, then." Then he faced his bride again. "So long I've been without you, my love," he whispered, shaking his head.

"But now we have eternity together, Jonathon," Solange whispered. "Always together."

Turning, they moved toward the window and vanished in a flash of light.

For a long moment the others were silent, staring at the spot near the window, choking back tears.

Finally, one of the men cleared his throat, and Eve said, "What do we do with the Stone? We never asked her."

Celeste faced her. "We need to put it back in the cave where it was safe for hundreds of years. And we need to perform rituals and magic daily, to ensure it stays protected this time."

"With four of us on the case, the magic will be stronger than ever," Rory said. "Especially now that we know we can make use of all the magic that ever existed in our line."

"And of each other's," Eve added with a smile.

"Still, better safe than sorry," Ben said.

They all turned to look at him. He shrugged. "I'm just saying, maybe we ought to get started on restocking our supply of Deveaux women. You know, we'll need plenty of daughters to keep that rock safe in the future."

"And if we end up with a few sons along the way, it'll be an added bonus," Nic said.

"I'm all for that plan," Travis put in.

"Me, too," Luke said.

Ben leaned down and kissed Celeste gently. "How about you?"

"Oh, I'm in," she told him, and turned into his waiting arms.

The End

Desires and Adorations,

Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,

Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;

And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam

Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,

Came in slow pomp.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

March 20, 1793

The stub of a tallow candle balanced on a ledge of cold stone, its flame casting odd, lively shadows. The smell of burning tallow wasn't a pleasant one, but far more pleasant than the other aromas hanging heavily all around him. Damp, musty air. Thick green fungus growing over roughhewn stone walls. Rat droppings. Filthy human bodies. Until tonight, Eric had been careful to conserve the tallow, well aware he'd be allowed no more. Tonight there was no need. At dawn he'd face the guillotine.

Eric closed his eyes against the dancing shadows that seemed to mock him, and drew his knees closer to his chest. At the far end of the cell a man coughed in awful spasms. Closer, someone moaned and turned in his sleep. Only Eric sat awake this night. The others would face death, as well, but not tomorrow. He wondered again whether his father had suffered this way in the hours before his appointed time. He wondered whether his mother and younger sister, Jaqueline, had made it across the Channel to safety. He'd held the bloodthirsty peasants off as long as he'd been able. If the women were safe he'd consider it well worth the sacrifice of his own pathetic life. He'd never been quite like other people, anyway. Always considered odd. In his own estimation he would not be greatly missed. His thirty five years had been spent, for the most part, alone.

His stomach convulsed and he bent lower, suppressing a groan. Neither food nor drink had passed his lips in three days. The swill they provided here would kill him more quickly than starvation. Perhaps he'd die before they could behead him. The thought of depriving the bastards of their barbaric entertainment brought a painful upward curve to his parched lips.

The cell door opened with a great groan, but Eric did not look up. He'd learned better than to draw attention to himself when the guards came looking for a bit of sport. But it wasn't a familiar voice he heard, and it was far too civilized to belong to one of those illiterate pigs.

"Leave us! I'll call when I've finished here." The tone held authority that commanded obedience. The door closed with a bang, and still Eric didn't move.

Footsteps came nearer and stopped. "Come, Marquand, I haven't all night."

He tried to swallow, but felt only dry sand in his throat. He lifted his face slowly. The man before him smiled, absently stroking the elaborately knotted silk cravat at his throat. The candlelight made his black hair gleam like a raven's wing, but his eyes glowed even darker. "Who are you?" Eric managed. Speaking hurt his throat after so many days without uttering a word, or downing a drop.

"I am Roland. I've come to help you, Eric. Get to your feet. There isn't much time."

"Monsieur, if this is a prank—"

"I assure you, it is no prank." He reached to grasp Eric's upper arm, and with a tug that seemed to cost him minimal effort at best, he jerked Eric to his feet.

"You—you don't even know me. Why would a stranger wish to help me now? 'Twould be a risk to your own freedom. Besides, there is naught to be done. My sentence is passed. I die on the morrow. Keep your head, friend. Leave here now."

The man called Roland listened to Eric's hoarse speech, then nodded slowly. "Yes, you are a worthy one, aren't you? Speak to me no more, lad. I can see it pains you. You'd do better to listen. I do know you. I've known you from the time you drew your first breath."

Eric gasped and took a step away from the man. A sense of familiarity niggled at his brain. He fumbled for the candle without taking his eyes from Roland, and when he gripped it, he held it up. "What you say is quite impossible, monsieur. Surely you have mistaken me for someone else." He blinked in the flickering light, still unable to place the man in his memory.

Roland sighed as if in frustration, and blocked the candlelight from his face with one hand. "Get that thing out of my face, man. I tell you I know you. I tell you I've come to help and yet you argue. Can it be you are eager to have your head in a basket?" Eric moved the candle away, and Roland lowered the hand and faced him again. "In your fourth year you fell into the Channel. Nearly drowned, Eric. Have you no memory of the man who pulled you, dripping, from the cold water? The eve of your tenth birthday celebration you were nearly flattened by a runaway carriage. Do you not recall the man who yanked you from the path of those hooves?"

The truth of the man's words hit Eric like a blow, and he flinched. The face so white it appeared chalked, the eyes so black one couldn't see where the iris ended and the pupil began—it was the face of the man who'd been there at both those times, he realized, though he wished to deny it. Something about the man struck him afraid.

"You mustn't fear me, Eric Marquand. I am your friend. You must believe that."

The dark gaze bored into Eric as the man spoke in a tone that was oddly hypnotic. Eric felt himself relax. "I believe, and I am grateful. But a friend is of little use to me now. I know not even the number of hours left me. Is it full dark yet?"

"It is, lad, else I could not be here. But time is short, dawn comes soon. It took longer than I anticipated to bribe the guards to allow me this visit. If you want to live, you must trust me and do as I say without question." He paused, arching his brows and awaiting a response.

Eric only nodded, unable to think for the confusion in his brain.

"Good, then," Roland said. "Now, remove the cravat."

Eric worked at the ragged, dirty linen with leaden fingers. "Tell me what you plan, monsieur."

"I plan to see to it that you do not die," he said simply, as if it were already done.

"I fear no one can prevent tomorrow's fate." Eric finally loosed the knot and slid the cravat from his neck.

"You will not die, Eric. Tomorrow, or any other day. Come here."

Eric's feet seemed to become one with the floor. He couldn't have stepped forward had he wanted to. His eyes widened and he felt his throat tighten.

"I know your fear, man, but think! Am I more fearsome than the guillotine!" He shouted it, and Eric stiffened and looked around him, but not one body stirred.

"Why—why don't they wake?" Roland came forward then, gripping his shoulders. "I don't understand. Why don't they wake?" Eric asked again.

The guard pounded on the door. "Time's up!"

"Five minutes more!" Roland's voice boomed, nearly, Eric thought, rattling the walls. "I'll make it worth your while, man! Now go!"

Eric heard the guard grumble, and then his footsteps shuffle away from the door as he called, "Two minutes, then. No more."

"Blast it, lad. It has to be done. Forgive me for not finding a way to make it less frightening!" With those words Roland pulled Eric to him with unnatural strength. He pressed Eric's head back with the flat of one hand, and even as Eric struggled to free himself Roland's teeth sank into his throat.

When he opened his mouth to release a scream of unbridled horror, something wet sealed his lips. It sickened him when he understood that it was a wrist, gashed open and pulsing blood. Roland forced the severed vein to him and Eric had no choice but to swallow the vile fluid that filled his mouth.

Vile? No. But warm and salty. With the first swallow came the shocking realization that he wanted more. What was happening to him? Had he lost his sanity? Yes! He must have, for here he was, allowing another man's blood to assuage his painful hunger, his endless thirst. He didn't even cower when the word rushed through his brain like a chilling breeze. Vampire. Fear filled his heart even as Roland's blood filled his body. He felt himself weakening, sinking into a dark abyss from which he wanted no escape. It was a far better death than the one the dawn would bring. The blood drugged him, and Roland stepped away.

Eric couldn't stand upright. He felt emptied of everything in him, and he sank to the floor. He didn't feel the impact. His head floated somewhere above him and his skin pricked with a million invisible needles. "Wh-what have you d-done to me?" He had to force the words out, and they slurred together as if he were drunk. He couldn't feel his tongue anymore.

"Sleep, my son. When next you wake you will be free of this cell. I promise you that. Sleep."

Eric fought to keep his eyes from closing, but they did. Vaguely he felt cold hands replacing his soiled cravat. Then he heard Roland pound on the door and call for the guard.

"He'll not live long enough for his execution, I fear." Roland's voice seemed to come from far away.

"The hell, you say! He was fine "

"Look for yourself, man. See how he lies there? Dead before the dawn, I'll wager. I'll send a coach for the body. See to it, will you?"

"For a price, sir."

"Here, then. And there will be more to follow, if you do it precisely as I say."

"Well, now, if he dies, like you say, I'll see he gets in your coach. But if not, I'll be here to see he keeps his other appointment. Either way he ends up the same. In the ground, eh, mister?" Harsh laughter filled the cell and the door slammed.