by Nancy Holder
He tried a different Spell of Seeing. When that failed as well, he began to rap against the brickwork, looking for a hollow spot that could contain a cache place.
Finally his knuckles tapped against a brick on his right that didn’t echo back in precisely the same way as the others. Yes, he thought, and gripped his fingertips around it. Gingerly he eased the loose brick out. It slid easily, which told him that it had been moved many times.
My brother’s probably been spying on both Dad and me.
Cautiously transferring the bogus brick to his left hand, he bent down to see inside the rectangular space left bare by its absence. The light was not good, but he could detect a small, round object lying inside the area.
He was just about to take hold of it when footsteps and voices alerted him to the fact that his father and brother had left the chamber and were heading for the kitchen.
Moving fast, he replaced the brick. Then he smoothed back his hair and took a breath, grabbed a box of cereal, and started to come out of the pantry.
His brother said, “You think she’s the one.”
“I had a sense of it,” Michael replied. “Meanwhile, we have Sir William to worry about.”
Jer wrinkled his forehead as he listened carefully. Sir William Moore was the Master of the Supreme Coven of the Art, the head coven to which the Deveraux Coven owed allegiance. It was headquartered in London, and Jer had no idea how many Dark Covens offered their loyalty to the Supreme Coven. He did know that Sir William was afraid of the power of the Deveraux, and had recently demanded that they prove their loyalty.
What Sir William didn’t know was that in secret, Michael had pledged the sorcery of the Deveraux to Sir William’s son, James. James had long plotted to overthrow his father. Michael regarded James as someone who could be more easily controlled than Sir William. Since Michael believed that the title of Master of the Supreme Coven belonged by right and tradition to the House of Deveraux, he had offered to back James if James tried to topple his father from the throne of the Master. Once the foolish young man was in power, Michael would stand behind that throne and arrange the situation to his own liking . . . no doubt by murdering James at the first opportunity, and raising either himself or Eli to the exalted position of Master.
Once a Deveraux led the Coven, the forces of light would be extinguished, one by one by one, until only the Black Arts tipped the scales of Fate, in this and other worlds.
Jeraud Deveraux was determined never to let that happen.
Even if I have to betray my own flesh and blood someday.
“We might have to kill her,” his father was saying.
Jer started, furious at himself for losing his focus. Who? Who are they talking about?
Whoever she was, there was no way he would ever let his father and brother spill her blood. Even if it meant their own deaths, he would not knowingly permit them to kill an innocent.
What about the guilty, Jer? asked a little voice inside him. He knew it was his conscience, but it was cast in the voice of his Overlord, Sir William. Proud warlock, you scorn your Tradition, yet still seek the privileges of your blood. If you discern good and evil, it is because they exist, and because you have the power to use them as you will.
But once you choose to use evil—no matter the reason—you are Coven-bound . . . forever . . . and your soul belongs to us.
“We could always make it look like a car accident,” his father drawled. “Like that other one we did.”
“That was gross,” Eli replied.
“But it did the job. He’s dead, isn’t it?”
Jer’s heart literally skipped a beat. Rival Seattle architect Zane Thornwood had recently died in a car accident. Both he and Jer’s father had bid on the same project in Pioneer Square. With his death, the contract had gone to Michael Deveraux.
His eyes welled and he felt sick down to the core of his base, warlock soul. He was afraid he might throw up.
So now I know it’s true, he thought. My brother, my father . . . they’re murderers.
The voice said, You’ve known for years, you hypocrite. You just didn’t want to do anything about it.
Eli said, “True. But accidents like that are pretty easy to detect. We almost got caught last time.”
“Ah, but we Deveraux learn from our mistakes. That’s what separates the sheep from the wolves, Eli. I’m thinking we could take advantage of the wet streets. . . . It’s so rainy in Seattle, and if you go too fast, you’ll hydroplane. We could do that from a good distance.”
“Maybe even from as far away as San Francisco,” Eli said archly. “Where we kept a grieving lady company?”
“I can’t keep anything from you.” Michael sounded proud, also a little wary. “Keep an eye on her. We’ll decide what to do by next moon.”
Jer swayed, then realized he didn’t have the luxury of reacting to the horror of what he had learned—confirmed—this night. Deeply ashamed of his former passivity, he sent out a silent message to his family’s potential victim.
The time had come for him to take a stand against his own family.
Run, he ordered, to me. By the power of the God, come into my influence and be bound to me. Find me. If my father wants you dead, you’re dead already.
And I’m the only one in Seattle who can protect you from him.
It was midnight. Holly and Amanda had gotten home hours ago. But Nicole was still out . . . with Eli Deveraux, Jer’s brother.
Fuming at being dumped by her sister, Amanda talked about Eli as Holly lay on her bed, Freya curled up beside her. Bast was nowhere to be found.
“I wish he’d get put in jail for good or something.”
Her face was getting red and she chewed on her left thumbnail before she apparently realized what she was doing and dropped her hand into her lap.
“Listen, she’s not supposed to see him, but it’s awkward, you know, with my parents being friends with his dad and all. He’s done so much work on our house. His dad, I mean. He’s an architect.”
Amanda didn’t know that Eli’s father had been in San Francisco with her mother. Holly felt just sick for Uncle Richard—and for the girls, if they should find out. More than one of her friends’ families had been broken up by an affair. But she covered her reaction with a fake cough and said, “Okay.”
“Eli will probably eventually come on to you, just to freak you out,” Amanda continued. “Just totally ignore him. It’s what I do.” She joined Holly in petting Freya, and her features softened. “Jer’s different. I swear, sometimes I think he was adopted.” Her laugh was forced, and her face grew even redder. They spent a few awkward moments petting the cat. Holly was about to drop.
“I have to go to bed,” Holly said. “I’m really tired, Amanda.” She said, “I swear, I was delirious or something back at The Half Caff.”
“I know. You’re sick.” She touched Holly’s forehead, kind and honestly concerned. “Holly . . . ,” she began, and Holly wondered if she was going to broach the subject of Jer Deveraux and spoken-for territory.
With a sigh, Amanda made some kind of decision. She said, “I’m glad you’re here. Really glad.” She gave her a pained smile. “It’s fun to have someone to hang out with.”
“I’m sorry I won’t be staying much longer,” Holly reminded her gently. So you can still try to snag Jer, she tried to tell her with her words. I pose no permanent threat.
“I’m sorry, too,” Amanda said.
Freya the cat lifted her head and gazed steadily at Amanda. Then she swiveled her head at Holly, and put her head back down on Amanda’s bedspread.
“Well . . . good night.” Holly got off the bed and stood, yawning.
“Good night. Sleep tight,” Amanda said in a slightly singsong way, as if she was determined not to let the Jer Affair get her down.
As Holly got ready for bed, she replayed the scene in the coffeehouse over and over again. She was fascinated. Embarrassed, yeah. In fact, I could just about sink through the floor. But i
t was so weird how mutual it was . . . the way they had both been drawn to each other . . . But hey, hormones. He is a hottie. And the French they had spoken to each other . . . which I’ve studied, so no weird there. And he has a French name, so they probably speak a little in his family. So no weird there, either.
But my vision . . . I saw him, and me, in another time. Only it wasn’t us. . . .
Lack of sleep, she told herself. So get some. You’re all stressed out. You knew you weren’t ready to face the world. So do some deep breathing, meditating, like Daddy showed you.
With a pang at the memory of her father, she pictured a beautiful lake, and herself in a rowboat . . . and Jer, taking up the oars while she sat in the bow. They were rowing somewhere . . . to Avalon . . . like in Amanda’s book she’s reading . . . the mists . . . they’re parting. . . .
And we’re doing magic, to save the world.
She drifted along, beginning to drowse. Settling in, she cuddled her cat and murmured, “He’s amazing. If he liked me . . .” Too shy to complete the thought, she closed her eyes.
The cat’s breath sighed against Holly’s cheek. The tip of Bast’s pink tongue scraped her face. Or the dream of a kiss.
Jeraud Deveraux . . .
The floor creaked; she was dimly aware of the sound. This house, this big, noisy house; it held secrets.
If he liked me . . .
Then he was in bed with her, beside her, and she smiled to herself. The dream caressed her like a tender lover, and she thought, I’ve never really had a boyfriend. Not one I would . . . not someone special . . .
Then hands, and lips . . .
And suddenly it was Michael Deveraux straddling her, his hands around her throat. His dark eyes glared at her with a killing look; his mouth was drawn back in a rictus of hatred, madness, and cruelty. His hair was tousled; his lips were swollen as if with kisses.
And he was choking the life out of her.
She could feel his hands around her neck; the weight of his body. She smelled wine on him, and perfume.
He’s really here. Oh, my God, this is really happening! He’s trying to kill me!
In a blind panic, Holly tried to claw him. Flailing with her arms, her legs, even her body, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t, and she couldn’t; it was as if she were under the river drowning again, and then she sucked in air and expelled it forcefully, screaming.
In real time her cat howled, snarled, hissed. Holly’s eyes flew open.
Bast jumped off the bed.
Holly was alone.
“Amanda!” she cried hoarsely, her throat raw from the dream strangle. Holly’s dry mouth worked, but no more sound came out. With shaking hands, she checked her throat.
Against the window, a large black bird flapped its wings, as if it were hovering in the black night; and then it flew out of sight.
A dream, she told herself, taking in huge gasps of air. It was just a weird dream, everything all mixed up in it because of Michael being with my aunt and what happened with Jer at The Half Caff. Just stress, finding a way out of me . . .
She lay back down, not totally convinced. Her heart was thundering. Then Bast nestled against her side and purred. Holly pet the cat, her own eyes wide open, trying very hard to process what had just happened.
She became aware of a new smell in the room, something feral and dirty. There was a tang of blood in the dark air.
Muzzily, Holly flicked on the lamp, blinking in the yellow light.
Then a fresh cry tore out of her throat.
On the floor beside the bed lay a huge dead rat. It was a deep, shiny black; blood still trickled from a gash in its side.
“Oh, my God,” she said, gasping.
Purring more loudly, Bast kneaded Holly’s thigh and gazed up at her as if to say, And I’d kill a thousand more for you.
Just say the word.
SEVEN
STORM MOON
Winter storms fiercely blow
Bury in ice our every foe
Give Deveraux strength for the days ahead
Lean and strong and freshly bled
Goddess come and fill our dreams
In sleeping nothing is as seems
Show Witch the path you’d have us take
Grant us Sight for Cahorses’ sake
Jer, Eddie, and Kialish took Kialish’s Saturn to the woody inlet where his father lived alone. Kialish’s mother had died when he was very little; perhaps that’s what had created the bond between him and Jer, that they both had lost their mothers at a very early age. As always, Eddie accompanied Kialish; they had been lovers for three years.
They were the best friends Jer could have wished for.
Kialish’s father was named Dan; he had grown up in a time when the Native American tribes of the Pacific Northwest worked hard at “becoming Americans.” Assimilation had been the name of their game, and to hell with cultural diversity. Not that anyone had known what cultural diversity was back then. There was being Caucasian, and then there was wanting to be Caucasian.
Dan lived in a beautiful wooden cabin he and other members of his clan—the Raven Clan—had built by hand. The small but clean two-bedroom house was warmed by a cast-iron wood-burning stove. He slept on a feather bed in a loft overlooking the living room, and built onto the back of the house, he had put in a redwood hot tub and an enclosed cedar box of a sweat lodge that reminded Jer of a sauna.
When the three guys got to Dan’s, Jer presented Dan with a fat salmon he had caught and dressed himself, and received and gave the ritual blessing: Good spirits infuse all you say and do and are.
Wiccans would say, Blessed be.
Warlocks would say, May the God aid your battles.
Jer had been studying with Dan since he’d turned thirteen, which was when Dan had judged him old enough for the “Raven’s Journey,” as he called it. He told Jer that his own Deveraux totem was not Raven, but Falcon, and that that bird was important to Jer’s family history.
“You are an old soul,” Dan had also told him. “And your soul has unfinished business, in this world and the next.”
Jer had listened hard to that soul, but in the passing years, he had not heard word one from it. Now, with the two visions, the name Isabeau, and the certainty that his father wanted someone—a woman—in Seattle dead, he decided that finally, his soul was speaking to him.
After Dan had put the salmon away, he drew ritual symbols in black body paint on his, Jer’s, and the other guys’ chests and foreheads. Kialish and he wore ravens. Eddie’s totem was the salmon. Jer’s chest was coated with a black falcon.
Then they had stripped down to loincloths and entered the sweat lodge, which was a room big enough to house at most five people. Dan had already laid and set the fire in a square metal brazier set into the wooden floor. Alderwood smoke wafted toward the wooden ceiling of the small, cube-shaped room.
After inhaling the ritual smoke, Dan passed a peace pipe to Jer, filled with pungent botanicals designed to send them more quickly and deeply into their spirit journeys.
Jer hesitated and looked at the others. Only he would take a journey; the others were there to witness it.
As usual, his friends were there for him.
Kialish held out his hand; they shook. Then Eddie did the same, before he settled against Kialish. Dan put his hands on both Jer’s shoulders.
“You aren’t sure about this,” he said to Jer, “are you, my lodge son?”
Jer shook his head. Eddie and Kialish began to stoke the fire to encourage more smoke into the room. After a minute or two, their foreheads and backs rolled with sweat. Jer was sweating, too. Rivulets of perspiration trailed down his chest, smearing the large, taloned and beaked falcon Dan had drawn there.
“I need to know what my father and Eli are doing,” he admitted, “but I don’t want to know.”
Dan nodded. “You want to remain uninvolved, passive, ignorant.”
Though Dan spoke the words in a neutral tone, each one felt like a
judgment that found Jer wanting.
Yes, he wanted to say. I don’t want to be a warlock. I don’t want to have powers.
But the truth is, I do. And I can’t pretend that something isn’t happening.
“I have to know,” he told Dan. He turned to Eddie and Kialish. “Help me, my lodge brothers.”
As always, the two gave him the signal that they were willing, a simple thumbs-up—a modern anachronism in the ritual-laden, old-fashioned world of Dan’s sweat lodge.
I don’t know why they like me so much, he thought honestly. Dan had spoken a lot about his air of authority, and the force of his powers, but Jer knew that that was not why Kialish and Eddie usually deferred to him as point man in their day-to-day lives. For some reason, they were drawn to him, found in him the qualities that they cherished in friends.
He inhaled the pipe smoke.
At once the botanicals hit him; he was reeling; careening, flying high above the air, circling and diving and screeching—
I am Fantasme, he thought. I am the Falcon.
As he flew into the arched stone window of the castle, he saw a man pacing. His back was to Fantasme, and he was dressed in a long robe of crimson with green moons and stars emblazoned on it; he wore a pointed hat, and his hands were clenched.
“I cannot do it,” he muttered. “I cannot kill her. I haven’t gotten a son in her, but that’s the Cahorses’ doing. I can surmount their spells. If I get her with child, my family will not touch her.”
And then the door opened and another, older man stood in the doorway, glowering.
“You know it has to be done,” he said sternly. “They will not let her bear your child until you have given them the secret of the Black Fire. And that you—we—will never do. That secret is a Deveraux secret.”
The younger man . . . Jean, his name is Jean . . . glared at Laurent, his father . . . and said, “Then why did we commit to this alliance? Why did you marry her to me?”