Witch & Curse (5 page)

Behind the bricks and mortar of the fireplace, the body of the falcon he had walled up alive three months ago rustled and stirred. Michael Deveraux was renowned for his tireless efforts to locate and preserve the grand old buildings of Seattle, and of his meticulous attention to period detail when he restored them. Indeed, he had proven to be a marvelous help to the Anderson family when they had decided to tear out the old forties' fireplace that had defaced their Victorian
home and return it to its earlier grandeur.

Seizing the opportunity—which he had, after all, helped to create with a few well-dropped hints about enhancing the original charm of their lovely home—Michael had offered to do the work himself. Richard Anderson had promised him a copy of his latest software in return. Michael had pretended to be happy with the exchange, although he couldn't have cared less about data compression or whatever the hell it was Richard's firm bought and sold. But as a result of their bartering, the number of charms and sacrifices Michael had installed inside that fireplace would astound most warlocks if they knew of it.

And Michael's cleverness had certainly impressed Laurent.

Ever since Laurent had told him the story of the Deveraux and the Cahors, Michael had tried to conjure the Black Fire. It was said that the secret of the Fire had died with Laurent's son, Jean, and that if ever the Deveraux retrieved it they would rule all of Coventry, as was their cursed right. Laurent was as eager as Michael to draw forth the secret weapon; they had simply disagreed on the best way to go about it. Michael had been certain that allying their House with Marie-Claire's family once more would unlock the shadowed spells. Laurent, hating whatever remnant of
the Cahors the lady and her girls represented, would have none of that. In fact, he was certain that allowing the three women to exist could only hamper success.

We'll find out soon if Laurent was right
, Michael thought.

“I call upon my forbears and their powers,” he chanted in old French, placing his bleeding left hand over his mouth. “I call upon the Darkness. I call upon the Hunting Hounds to aid me in the chase.
Avantes, mes chiens
.”

The distant moaning of a tempest wind echoed through the room. The tip of the mound of ashes in the fireplace shifted very slightly. Michael continued to kneel, tasting his blood on his lips, and waited.

The keening grew louder. A chill breeze ruffled the hair at the back of Michael's neck, and he smiled with anticipation. The Hunting Hounds had unleashed themselves.

“Mes chiens, mes fréres du diable,”
he said boldly, calling to them.
“Aides-moi.”

Then he lifted his hand from his mouth and held it up, much as one would raise the right hand to swear to tell the truth in court. The faint whistle became the fierce belling of huge canines, animals with devilish cunning and dark senses; were-creatures that sniffed out souls and light and devoured them whole, ripping
to shreds any protective wards or talismans designed to prevent Michael's ritual from achieving his aim.

A sigh escaped Marie-Claire. To his shock, she shifted on the couch, as if seeking a more comfortable sleeping position.

She shouldn't be able to move at all
.

“Marie-Claire?” he asked softly, carefully. She didn't answer, but lay as pale and still as death. He wondered if he'd imagined the whole thing. “Laurent?” Michael called. “Is that you?”

Marie-Claire moved again. Definitely moved.

“Aides-moi!”
Michael whispered beneath the supernatural howling, which then erupted into frenzied barking. As he gazed at the unconscious woman, the invisible hounds howled triumphantly. They had picked up the scent of something opposing him and weakening his focus, and they screamed with demonic glee as they coursed the hidden forests of his realm of power. Obstacles had presented themselves before, of course, especially during other spells. No warlock alive was without his enemies, and Michael, being ambitious, had many, many enemies.

Has Sir William heard of the plan to overthrow him? Has one of my allies in the Supreme Coven turned on me?

He would leave trespassers and invaders to the Hounds for now. If they caught something, he would
deal with it then. In the meantime, he would try to continue as best he could, to outpace anyone or anything that was trying to stop him. The forces were in alignment
now
, and it wasn't possible to change them.

He scowled in concentration as he held his wounded hand over the ashes. His rich, red blood dripped steadily and his heart caught up the rhythm as he began to chant in the ancient tongue of his ancestors. In his mind, he translated the potent words:
I call up the Black Fire of the Deveraux, I conjure the Burning Night. It is our Hour. It is our Will
.

It is my Destiny
.

The paws of the dogs clattered over the freshly waxed wood floors of the Cathers mansion. They began to take form and shape. Vague, blurry shadows darted across the boards, racing through the furniture, pawing at the wallpaper. The elaborate crystal chandelier above the sofa swung back and forth like a buoy on Elliott Bay.

The dogs were definitely after something, and it was leading them on a wild hunt. Whatever it was, it was drawing near. Any moment now, it might materialize in this room.

Michael opened his eyes very wide and pressed his forefinger against the whites, opening his Sight with his blood. His vision swam with viscous pink, and
beneath the mounting cacophony he heard the rustle of the dead falcon he had walled up in the Andersons' chimney as it sought to join the fray.

He thought he saw the faint outline of a human figure, but he could not be sure. He squinted hard through the blood as the Hounds tore around the shimmering form, baying and shrieking like banshees. From his hand, his blood dripped steadily onto the wooden floor.

“Get thee from my sight,” he said, holding out his hand. “I banish thee. I send thee hence. I abjure thee, by the Hunting Lord.”

The figure raised its arms, and new, cold wind shot through the room.

Instinctively, Michael turned protectively toward the pile of ash on the fireplace, shielding it with his hands.

And in that moment, Laurent, Duc de Deveraux, appeared in his advanced state of decay at Michael's side.

The empty sockets bore down on him; the slack mouth hung open in a grimace of fury. The phantom raised one bony arm and struck Michael across the cheek, the fragments of its brittle fingertips slicing open his cheek.

Michael fell back, more shocked than hurt, staring
up at the Duke as the latter reached into the fireplace and grabbed up the handful of ash. The ancient nobleman cradled it against his rib cage, where his desiccated heart hung like a deflated gray beach ball, and shook his other fist at the man on the floor.

“Tu est rien,”
the Duke's voice echoed from the fleshless jaws.
You are nothing
.

Then, as Michael watched in helpless fury, the Hounds disappeared, the wind died, and the Duke and shimmering figure both vanished.

It was over. His spell would not work this night.

Angrily, he took off his robe and put it back in his satchel.

I'll kill her anyway
, he thought savagely.
I'll become the dutiful descendant, atone for my disobedience, and work whatever magic Laurent will show me. I'll find the secret of the Black Fire if it takes the rest of my life
.

I'll strangle her in her sleep. Back in our day, witches who confessed were garroted before they were burned. She's ignorant of her powers, making her somewhat innocent, so that should balance the karmic wheel. She has such a slender neck; it will be easy
.

In the sudden silence, the phone rang like the shriek of a bird of prey. Marie-Claire's portable phone had somehow wound up on the couch, though Michael hadn't noticed it there before.

Rousing at once, she sat up and fumbled for it.

“Hello?” Marie-Claire said fuzzily. She glanced at Michael and mouthed,
Did I fall asleep?

He nodded, holding his wounded hand, balled into a fist, behind himself. Apparently he had recovered his poise sufficiently, because she returned her attention to the caller's voice; first she blinked, and then she frowned. She said, “What?
What
?” in a high, shrill voice. Her mouth worked silently for a few seconds—then her face crumpled, and she burst into tears. With a shaking hand she pressed the phone against her chest.

“My brother's dead,” she wailed. “His wife, too. Jesus, Michael. . . .”

“Oh, my God,” Michael responded, and in her distress, she couldn't tell that he was faking it. He held out his other hand. She left the couch and sank against him, shuddering, her ear pressed to the phone again.

“Holly. Of course.” She nodded as she spoke. “Of course she can. I'll catch a plane.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Yes, yes, sure.” She ran a hand through her hair, and he put his arm around her to keep her steady.

“Let me call you back,” she said. “Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

She disconnected, then pressed herself against
him, seeking reassurance. “Daniel,” she moaned. “Oh, Daniel . . .”

He gentled her; he was good with animals and women. He caressed her back and her wet, cold cheeks and kissed her furrowed brow. He let her sob for what seemed like forever, impatient with her but not showing it. He wondered if his sons were home, wondering where he was. This night was not turning out the way he had expected it to, not at all.

So, should I still kill her?
he asked himself, gazing bloodlessly down at the bowed head, the riotous mass of shining curls.

Then she raised her head and said, “They want me to come get my niece. She's an orphan now. She has no one else.”

“Your niece,” Michael said slowly.

She nodded. “My brother's daughter. Holly.”

He showed no outward sign of the shock he felt at this news. He kept his voice low and his expression a model of compassionate detachment.

“I didn't realize there were any other women in your family.”

At this, she heaved another sob. “She's not a woman. She's the same age as my twins.”

So there's another Cathers—Cahors—female. Maybe
she's
the one who inherited the family's magical power. And
if I ally her with our House, the Black Fire might burn bright for Michael Deveraux after all
. . . .

“Then she'll be coming to live with you,” he said slowly.

She looked at him in abject misery and said, “They want me to go get her. She has no one else.”

“Then you should go. She's family.”

Her sigh was ragged and determined and resigned, all at once. “The funeral's in two days. I'll leave in the morning.” She raised her tear-streaked face up to look into his eyes. Her lips were moist and her body was pressed tightly against his.

“I'm so glad you're here,” she whispered. “I couldn't have handled being alone tonight.”

“Ma chere,”
he said, brushing the damp strands away from her forehead. “Don't worry. I'll take care of you.”

And in that moment, he really was glad that he hadn't murdered his mistress.

Yet
.

THREE

BLOOD MOON

On kings and saints we gladly feed
And wash their flesh down with mead
We bathe in blood and whittle bone
And dream of all the fear we've sown

By the light of the blessed moon
We hunt again and very soon
We'll catch within our snare
Our greatest enemy's one heir

Canyon Rock Hospital, Arizona

Holly drifted along on a gentle sea halfway between waking and dreaming. Though her eyes were closed, she sensed the brightness of the sun through her eyelids, smiled at the pleasant warmth on her face. Soon her mother would remind her to put on sunscreen, and Holly would, to please her. Secretly, she liked tans and when she was at the stables, she never bothered.
She told herself her cowboy hat was enough, but of course it wasn't.

A shadow moved between her and the sun's nourishing heat; she wrinkled her brow slightly but then relaxed as a large, familiar hand slipped around her own and gave her a squeeze. She tried to say, “Hi, Daddy,” but it was too much effort in her deliciously languid state. So she smiled again to indicate that he was welcome, and drifted along, her hand in his, loving her father, remembering all the years of looking up to him and adoring him. Her mom had always said Holly was a daddy's girl, but she hadn't minded. Elise Cathers's own childhood had been a nightmare, and she had told Holly one of the most important gifts she could give her daughter was a good, healthy love and respect for her own father.

“Not being able to love him, not wanting him anywhere near you,” her mom had said, “that's the worst thing for a young girl. I'm glad you love your dad so much.” That's what she would tell Holly, and then she'd smile a bit wistfully. “It's as that writer says—having a child is another chance to get it right.”