by Nancy Holder
Holly’s legs wobbled. “Don’t feel bad. What could you have done?”
“Taken your hand,” Amanda said.
The two looked at each other, each revealing the burn mark that showed their strange bond.
“Do you think . . . think it might have made a difference?”
Amanda nodded. “Let’s go home and call my friend.”
After everything that had happened, Cecile Beaufrere was not home. Amanda left a message on her voice mail, to the effect that she “really, really, really needed to talk to her about, um, stuff like in New Orleans. And hi, Silvana,” she added.
Nicole, who of course didn’t know what had happened, started wheedling to go to The Half Caff after dinner. A local band was playing, and apparently that was the signal to the local kids to show. She reminded Holly of the cats, batting and mewing for something they wanted.
“But, Daddy,” Nicole whined, stomping around the living room, “everyone’s going to be there!”
“I sure hope not,” Amanda murmured to Holly.
“Do you think she’s in danger too?” Holly asked. They had been trying to decide what to say to Nicole, wondering if she would believe them. She believed in enough to cast spells with Aunt Marie-Claire. But that was . . . gentle magic. Like wishing before one blew out the candles on a birthday cake.
“Sweetheart, we’ve just had a lot of accidents around here,” her father said reasonably. He gestured to Holly. “You need to be home, with your cousin. She’s not going to want to stay with us if this keeps up,” he added wanly.
“I’ll pay you back later if you get me a ticket to San Francisco,” Amanda said to Holly through clenched teeth.
“Daddy, honestly,” Nicole fumed.
She droned on and on, and on . . . and on . . .
With the warmth in the room and her tiredness—and her need to withdraw, be alone, think things over—Holly started to doze. The warm flames danced. They danced. . . .
It was in this room. Michael drugged Marie-Claire on this couch and tried to create the Black Fire, because no one remembers it no one remembers it no one remembers that we are . . . we are the . . .
. . . witches . . . he promised to kill us . . . he wants to kill . . . we were a noble House and a Coven. . . . We used to be the Cahors and . . . we forgot . . . we are the Cahors witches. . . .
Nicole brushed her elbow as she swept past, startling Holly from her reverie.
“Hey,” Amanda said, smiling gently, “welcome back to the land of the living.”
“I was . . . was I dreaming?” Holly asked aloud. Muzzy, she touched her forehead and looked around. She couldn’t remember what her dream was about. She knew it had something to do with . . . with . . .
She shook her head. My mind is a complete blank.
“I think snoring may qualify as dreaming in some people’s dictionaries,” Amanda replied with a chuckle. “But you missed an earthshaking event while you were out.”
Holly braced herself. “Now what?”
Amanda waited a beat, then whispered, “Nicole did not get her way.”
“Go, Uncle Richard,” she murmured to Amanda. Her uncle didn’t hear her—which had been her intention—and he innocently exchanged the section of paper he had been reading for another section, unaware of the conversation across the room.
Amanda and Holly sat quietly on the couch, eyeing the fire. Then Nicole appeared above them on the stairwell and said, “Dad, Mom said she wants me to go.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Amanda grumbled.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Uncle Richard said, looking up from the paper. But on his face was a look of total resignation.
Holly kept drowsing on the couch. Uncle Richard announced he was going up to bed, and suggested the two girls do the same.
“Who knows when your sister will be home,” he grumbled, then took the stairs without another word.
Amanda rose, stretching. She said, “I’m going to my room, but I’m going to try to stay awake until Nicole comes back.” She smiled at Holly. “Want to join me? We could zap some popcorn and watch Charmed.”
“Ha-ha, very funny.” Holly smiled wanly, grateful that she wouldn’t have to sleep in the guest bedroom tonight.
They trailed after Uncle Richard on the stairs, parting in the hall to get on their pajamas.
Bast was on her bed; she lifted her head when Holly came into the room and dropped down to the floor. As Holly changed, the cat sidled against her affectionately and began to purr.
“We’re going to hang out in Amanda’s room,” Holly informed her.
Bast trotted toward the door, and Holly followed her.
“I swear, not only can you hear, but you speak English, too,” Holly said a little uncomfortably.
The cat meowed, and Holly opened the door.
But she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She was exhausted, and Amanda’s bed was very soft. As Amanda nibbled at the popcorn, Holly scooted down and got comfortable. Bast curled up beside her.
“Dude, you need to watch this part,” Amanda said. “It’s about warlocks. Maybe we’ll learn something useful.”
I can’t believe what happened in the Rite Aid, Holly mused, drifting. That was so terrifying. Someone was attacking me with magic. Someone was trying to kill me.
They’ve tried twice.
I’m so tired . . . I don’t want this. I want to go home. I want everything to be the way it was supposed to be. . . .
Oh, Bast, fix it for me, little goddess kitty. . . .
“Yee-ha!” Tina yelled, flashing her a wide smile.
“Yee-ha!” came the answering cries from Holly’s mom and dad as the raft lifted into the air.
She was on the river again. The sun was shining brightly, warming her skin even as the spray from the river rapids splashed her. Her parents were smiling—laughing, even—as everyone on the raft got caught up in the exhilaration of the white-water run. Holly grinned and drove her paddle in deeper. Now this was what a vacation adventure should be.
She laughed with sheer delight as the raft continued its roller-coaster journey down the river. Just ahead loomed the huge stone outcropping, its raw, rough lines pushing majestically into the clear sky. The current swept them around a slick black granite boulder. Then, without warning, the raft dropped over a short precipice, and Holly’s stomach dropped with it. Now she remembered that with the adrenaline rush came risk.
When they landed, water roiled over the sides, and they rode deeper in the river. Holly dug her paddle in furiously, but the raft barely responded. Thick, black clouds swiftly flooded the sky, blocking the sunlight, and a lone raven briefly circled them before flapping away with one shrill cry. A long, deep grumble of thunder was the only warning they had before the heavens opened up, and immediately they were both blinded by the driving rain and soaked to the skin. The raft picked up speed, but refused to respond to their desperate paddling. All five of them tried to steer, even as the river pushed them onward, seemingly determined to grind them between the huge monolith ahead and the giant boulders in the middle of the rapids.
No. Not again.
Holly tried to cry out to Ryan, to Tina, to her parents—tried to warn them of the grave danger they all faced—but she couldn’t form the words.
Suddenly, she was in the water again, feeling it rush over her, dragging her down.
Once more she fought, unsuccessfully, to unbuckle her safety straps. Once more the cold swept through her body as the waters closed over her. She tried to fight her way to the surface. Once more, she ran out of air, and once more, the brackish water began to fill her lungs.
Even as she began to panic, thrashing about in a futile attempt to reach air, part of her remained detached, quietly observing and remembering.
The blue glow will come next.
There it was, right on cue. It glowed, it shimmered, it slowly coalesced. . . .
River algae streamed from its head in a grotesque parody of hair. Rotting strips of fle
sh hung from a caricature of a human face, with shiny bits of bone peeking through. The monstrosity reached out, its thin, grasping arms of rotting, fetid tree branches held wide to embrace her. Its mouth opened.
“Time to die now, Holly.”
The corpse was right, of course. She should have died on the river with her parents the first time they made this trip.
I’m dreaming. This is just a really bad dream. The whole thing is a dream. I’m back home, in San Francisco. . . .
And in her dream, she was back on the riverbank, the only survivor. As she huddled, cold and frightened, the corpse rose from the river, drenched, water sluicing down its legs and arms.
It lurched closer. She shrank from it, but in the way of dreams, she couldn’t move, couldn’t get away.
Closer still.
“I am Duc Laurent de Deveraux, and I am your enemy. I avenge my House with your death, little witch.” The stench of decay from its breath hit her like a blow to the chin.
She shuddered. Why wasn’t she waking up?
In dreams, you’re supposed to wake up before the monster gets you.
She could smell its breath now, even worse than its body odor, a revolting combination of rotting fish and decomposing leaves, hot and musty. Another step forward and it could grab her, and she knew if it grabbed her, she would die. But I know I’m dreaming. This is a lucid dream. People who have them can direct them. You can create anything you need, anything you want.
She wanted to destroy the monster, and she wanted to live.
Anything you want.
Her parents, arm in arm, appeared before her on the bank. The sun was shining, and the river birds were trilling. For a moment, the dead man became unimportant. Her parents looked happy and in love.
Then the phantom loomed over her father’s shoulder.
“Daddy!”
Her eyes flew open. Her parents were gone. All that surrounded her now was the darkness and the sound of Bast’s snores. She sucked in air, gut-punched by the sudden loss . . . again.
“Well, that was pointless,” Eli drawled.
Michael sighed and shook his head as he covered the dreamstone. “Nothing that gives you information about your enemy is pointless, son. You should have learned that by now.”
“Information? I thought you were going to kill her.” Eli pushed away from the table, stood, and began to pace across the room in front of Michael.
“Knowledge is power, Eli; don’t ever forget that. If you know your enemy, you have power over him . . . or her.” He chuckled at Eli’s skeptical look. “I’m hardly a one-trick pony, after all. Just wait.”
Eli gazed levelly at his father. “Is that what you’re going to tell Laurent to do? Because my guess is, he’s tired of waiting.”
Michael crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Are you threatening me?” he asked in a pleasant, singsong voice that was loaded with malice.
“No way, Dad,” Eli replied, just as pleasantly.
“She’ll be dead before Yule,” he promised. Then he caught himself, because he didn’t have to prove himself to his own child. So he said, “And mind your own business.”
“Deveraux Coven business is my business, mon père.” Eli lifted his chin. “Don’t forget, you’re not the only Deveraux in this house. I have a stake in how well you do.”
Michael kept smiling. “That’s right, son.” Gave him a wink.
Left the room.
Thought about killing him.
Thanksgiving.
Holly was dispirited. Alone, she walked along the seashore in a black pea coat, mittened hands in her pockets. Her right hand clutched the strange collection of objects she had discovered in her locker a few days after Halloween. Dried salmon skin had been wrapped around a piece of ivory upon which a stylized bird had been carved. Four eagle feathers had been attached to the skin with—of all things—what looked to be the thin strap of a woman’s T-shirt. A sprig of ivory had been wound around that.
There was a note, which read, This is a ward. Soak it in salt water, then point it to the north, south, east, and west. We are with you. Jer.
“Throw it out,” Amanda had insisted, and Holly might have done just that . . . except that that afternoon, after Holly had done as Jer had written, Michael Deveraux called her aunt and said that he was very sorry, but he and his sons would not be able to come for Thanksgiving dinner after all.
And there were no more attacks.
She sensed, however, that the quiet was just a lull before the storm. She didn’t understand why Michael Deveraux wanted to harm her family, but she was firmly convinced that he was behind the attacks.
She had planned to go back to San Francisco to see Barbara Davis-Chin, who was still in the hospital. But Amanda’s friend Silvana Beaufrere and her Tante Cecile were coming to Seattle for Thanksgiving vacation. Tante Cecile had been concerned enough about the situation Amanda described that she had decided to investigate on the scene. They were due in sometime today, and she and Amanda were going to go over to their hotel to visit them after Thanksgiving dinner.
Despite the discovery of the ward inside her locker, Holly hadn’t heard from Jer since. He was nowhere to be seen, and she had heard at The Half Caff that when anybody asked his father where he was, he told them some lame story about going to visit a sick friend in Portland. Tommy, in his role as liaison to the land of cool people, heard that Eli had gotten drunk at a party and told everybody he and his father were going to kill his brother when they found him. Of course no one took his threat seriously . . . except Holly and Amanda.
The seacoast before her was stony. Gulls hopped along the shore, pecking for fish or hermit crabs. Salt lined Holly’s lips and she sniffled, her nose running from the chill. Seattle smelled of clean ocean water and pine trees, fresher than San Francisco. When she was in Girl Scouts, she had written her pen pal that San Francisco “smells like Chinese food.” It had become a family joke.
Staring out to sea, she had no idea if she was looking toward Alaska or Japan or California, but she knew that part of her was beginning to think of this place as her home and the Andersons as her family. Oh, not in the way she felt about her parents—and she wasn’t sure she would ever feel close to Uncle Richard—but she had been living here for almost four months. Granted, life here was incredibly strange, but what surprised her was that as time went on, all the bizarre things that had happened here began to feel normal to her.
“Warlocks and witches and wards, oh my,” she whispered to herself. But her joking fell flat. Tears slid down her cheeks. She had never expected to have a life like this. She had never even known one could have a life like this.
She wished she could make sense of it. Tonight, she thought, Amanda’s friend’s aunt will stick pins in something and alakazam! everything will be revealed. The pathetic thing is, I half-expect it will really be that way.
Suddenly the gulls began to screech. Like a blanket lifted by invisible hands at four corners, they rose into the air, whirling in a spiral. Cawing, wings flapping, they flew to the open sea en masse, wheeling into the distance.
Wow, Holly thought nervously. Though she studied the spot where they had been, she saw nothing. The gray waves of Elliott Bay still crashed against the stones. The evergreens growing at the water’s edge still whipped in the wind.
Abruptly the gulls screamed back toward the shore, some of them making a near-perfect 180. A flapping, cawing blanket of feathers and movement, they careened toward the water, swarming and jittering. Holly cried out, darting out of their way, stumbling and falling on her butt.
They hunkered into a clump, skittering and jostling, then took off again, as quickly as they had the first time.
Only this time, they left something behind:
Holly caught her breath, then pushed up from her stinging palms and stumbled toward the object. It was a book, or a fragment of one, the pages both scorched and sodden, the majority of them reduced to soaking-wet ash that clumped off and splashed into the break
ers as she lifted it into her hand.
She was no scholar, but she knew Gothic script when she saw it.
And she also recognized the one word that jumped out at her: ISABEAU.
Thanksgiving dinner was delicious, but there was no warm heart in the Anderson mansion. Aunt Marie-Claire drank too much, and Uncle Richard was quiet. Nicole was impatient to be finished so she could go visit “friends.” Amanda and Holly exchanged glances, still unsure what to do or say to her.
They bided their time and, finally, managed to snag use of Uncle Richard’s Toyota before Nicole could ask for it. The Mercedes had been totaled in the fire, and the new “family car” was a Volvo station wagon. Problem was, the family never went anywhere together, and to Holly, the wagon’s purchase represented some kind of dysfunctional fantasy that they did. Nicole was left to drive it, which was not as fun as the Toyota.
She and Amanda tore out of the house, wild to be gone, in a hurry to get some answers. Holly had shown Amanda the book, and Amanda had been just as freaked out by Holly’s description of the seagulls as Holly had been during the experience.
They drove to the Capitol Hill section of Seattle and found the bed-and-breakfast, a charming little wooden inn with five bedrooms.
“Bonjour,” Amanda sang out happily as she and Holly rapped on the door to the bedroom nearest the stairway, having been shown up by the proprietress of the inn. The lady had provided her guests with a picture-perfect Thanksgiving dinner, the evidence of which was still on the dining room table.
“Bonjour,” replied a warm, honey voice as the door opened.
A smiling, dark-skinned woman stood on the other side. She was dressed in a dark gray dress and black leather clogs. Her black hair was smoothed back into a simple ponytail. She was carrying a pink box labeled CAFÉ DU MONDE.
“Amanda,” she greeted, holding open her arms. “Hello, sweetie.”
Amanda embraced her, then turned to Holly. “Tante Cecile, this is my cousin.”
The woman appraised Holly for a couple of seconds, then extended her hand. She kept her gaze fastened on Holly as Holly held out her hand in return.