by Nancy Holder
Darkness covers all we do
Fills our souls through and through
Death and evil lurk in our wake
What Deveraux want Deveraux take
Goddess guide us through the night
Fill us with your will and might
Grant us will to carry on
And chase away the fateful dawn
The Cathers/Anderson Coven: Paris, November
In her white temple robes, Holly walked by the light of the waning moon in the robe garden, savoring the tranquility of the Moon Temple compound. It was amazing to Holly that such a vast complex could be located within the city limits of noisy, busy Paris. But the place was very peaceful, warded against the hubbub and the chaos, and part of her wished she could become an acolyte and live here for the rest of her life.
They have no idea what it’s like beyond these walls, she thought. They’ve forgotten. Or is it that we’re more jacked into reality, aware of the evil in the world because we’re fighting Michael Deveraux?
Someone was following her; she sensed a vibration in the air, the soft pad of footfalls on the smooth-stoned path that meandered like a snake through the garden. She closed her eyes and murmured a spell of Seeing, then relaxed as she saw that it was her cousin.
She walked slowly so that Amanda could catch up. Amanda’s white robe was a little long on her, and she had gathered up the extra fabric in her fists; she looked like a little girl playing dress-up. Holly smiled wistfully for younger days, happier days.
“They sent me to find you,” Amanda said by way of greeting. “They’re getting ready for a strengthening ritual for us.”
Holly took that in. They know we’re leaving. They had only been there one day and one night, but she knew too that they could spend no more time recuperating from their battle with Michael and the long flight to Paris.
“Tommy and Silvana are already there,” Amanda went on, then added, smirking, “Kari says she’s not going to participate, and she wants the High Priestess to get someone to drive her to the airport.”
“So not a team player,” Holly observed, then realized that she was hardly one to talk.
A beautiful-sounding gong rang three times. Amanda turned to Holly, who said, “Let’s do it.”
They walked the serpentine path together, turning along a hedgerow to face the entrance to the Moon Temple. The entrance was a fat arch of stone, the building topped with a dome shaped like half a grapefruit. Beautiful plane trees, commonplace in France, flanked the entrance; before each tree stood an oversized white marble statue of the Goddess in one of her aspects, as within the temple: Astarte, Diana, Jezebel, Mary of Nazareth, and Mother Teresa.
Amanda stopped abruptly. She put a hand on Holly’s forearm and whispered, “Look, Holly.”
The statue of the Goddess as Hecate was crying. Tears streamed in rivulets down the stone face.
Holly swallowed. Moved, she slowly knelt on both knees and bowed her head. Amanda watched, her features soft, and Holly said silently, My cousin thinks I’m begging your forgiveness, Goddess Hecate. But I only did what you wanted, and I refuse to believe that the familiar’s death is my sole responsibility.
The statue’s tears stopped.
Holly had no idea what that signified, only that some sort of response was implied.
“Oh, Holly,” Amanda whispered as she stared at the statue. She took Holly’s hand and helped her to her feet. “Holly, I . . . I’m sorry I’ve been so mean.”
Holly was sorry too, but not in the way Amanda meant. She was sorry that Amanda’s apology meant nothing to her, except that it was proof that Amanda wasn’t strong enough to lead the coven.
I’ve changed so much, she thought. After I sacrificed Hecate, I got tougher. And with Kialish’s death . . . my heart has hardened.
Well, so be it. If this is what I have to become in order to keep my coven alive and save Jer, then that’s fine with me.
They entered the temple together, moving through the foyer to stand beneath the rotunda, which was made of alabaster and allowed the moonlight to shine through. Then they walked through another smaller arched entrance to the temple proper, and they both drew back.
There were probably two hundred women dressed in white robes lounging throughout the temple room. They reclined gracefully on white satin pillows or rested beside the pools, which were floating with roses and lilies. There were no chairs, no rows of seats—the seating was very casual, haphazard, and fluid.
They look like cats, Holly thought.
A large stone table had been erected in the center of the temple under a second dome not visible from the exterior of the building. The High Priestess stood behind it, opening her arms in welcome to Holly and Amanda. She wore a headdress of silver topped by a crescent moon sparkling with diamonds. Moons had been tattooed with henna on the backs of her hands and on her cheeks.
“Welcome, Cahors. We salute you.”
Amanda glanced sideways at Holly and whispered, “Why is she using the older version of our name?”
Because in Coventry it’s who we are, Holly wanted to tell her. We’re not Gathers and Anderson.
We are the House of Cahors. For all we know, you, Nicole, and I may be all that is left of the line.
“Welcome, Cahors,” the white-robed women chorused throughout the temple.
“Come forward, Circle,” the High Priestess intoned.
Silvana and Tommy rose from beside a statue of the Goddess and came toward the High Priestess. Like everyone else, they wore white temple robes, but Silvana’s dark hair hung free over her shoulders. Tommy looked awkward in the white robes among all the women, but he gave them a brave smile.
At her urging, Holly and Amanda came forward as well.
The High Priestess kept her arms held out and pivoted in a circle as she continued.
“We are here, sisters, to strengthen and protect this, our daughter coven, as they prepare to leave these walls.”
Holly couldn’t help her reaction of disdain, lifting her chin and frowning as she thought resentfully, We are not a daughter coven. We’re a separate, independent entity, We haven’t agreed to let them boss us around.
But the other women in the room murmured, “Blessed be,” signifying their approval of the High Priestess’s sentiment.
She motioned for Holly and the others to kneel. They complied, Holly bracing herself for whatever came next.
A lovely young girl with delicate Asian features glided to the High Priestess’s side. She was carrying an alabaster bowl; the scent of lavender wafted from it.
“We anoint you with oil,” the High Priestess intoned. She dipped her fingertips in the bowl and lifted them up. Lavender-scented oil dripped from them.
She and the girl moved first to Silvana.
“Goddess, protect this girl’s eyes.” Silvana blinked, and the High Priestess placed her fingertips on Silvana’s closed eyelids.
“Goddess, protect her lips.”
She touched oil to Silvana’s mouth.
“Protect her heart.”
It went on. Holly’s mind began to wander.
I don’t belong here. The Mother Coven is out of touch, out of date. I need to work with a stronger group; people who aren’t afraid to use the hard magics to fight the Deveraux and the Supreme Coven.
She pictured harder, tougher women, not so soft and anxious.
Amazons, Holly thought. Her mental image expanded to include herself, astride her ghostly warhorse, commanding the ghost army back on Elliott Bay.
I need to find more women—correction, more people—who have the guts to fight like that.
“... and aid them on their quest to save the third Lady of the Lily from the clutches of our enemies....”
Lady of the Lily?
“Blessed be,” the women lifted up in heartfelt prayer.
“So as they go from this place to save their sister witch, Nicole Anderson—”
“No.”
Holly stood, forcing the girl ho
lding the alabaster bowl to step anxiously back Some of the oil spilled out of the bowl onto her sleeve.
There was a collective gasp.
“Holly?” Amanda murmured.
“We will go to Nicole,” Holly assured her cousin, “but first—”
“No,” Amanda cut in, rising to her feet. She said to the High Priestess, “You know what she wants to do.”
The priestess nodded, then said to Holly, “Nicole is of your blood. Your duty is to her.”
“I have no duty!” Holly thundered.
Then it was as if someone had placed a kind of shimmering, projected field in front of her. From her perspective, everything and everyone in the temple was bathed in blue light. She looked down at her hands and saw that they, too, were covered in blue.
“Isabeau,” Amanda said, staring open-mouthed at Holly.
Holly’s mouth opened, but it was not her voice that spoke.
“Alors, we came to you for courage, for strength. But you are so weak! This one and this one alone will save the Mother Coven and prevent the Supreme Coven from enslaving all humanity! And she will do it with the aid of our enemy’s own son, Jeraud Deveraux!”
The High Priestess moved directly in front of Holly, as if shielding everyone else in the temple room from her.
She’s afraid of us, Holly thought with glee.
Amanda spoke next.
“Isabeau,” she said, her voice faint but steady. “I know why you want to go to him. Your husband can take him over, just like you’re doing with Holly.”
“Silence!” Isabeau launched into a barrage of what Holly, standing aside as Isabeau took her over, assumed to be medieval French.
Then Isabeau forced Holly to press both her hands together. A glowing sphere of blue energy formed between her hands. It tingled and sizzled, teasing the skin on her palms. She slowly rolled and shaped it into a ball, and it burst into flame.
The women in the temple reacted instantly Some cried out; some ducked. All except for one who stood slightly off to the side, her face obscured by her hooded robe. Holly’s eyes were drawn to her. There was something about her. . . .
Her attention moved back to the others as they scurried out of the way. Holly was exhilarated by their expressions of fear and of respect. Even the High Priestess withdrew, putting at least fifteen feet between them.
I’m with you, Lady Isabeau, she silently told her ancestress.
Ma brave, Isabeau replied. What afine witch you are!
“Don’t push us!” Holly cried, savoring the moment. And with a rush of pure joy, she raised her hand menacingly over her head, aiming the fireball at the nearest statue of the Goddess—
—Hecate again!—
—and as with the statue in the garden, the statue in the temple began to weep.
Holly was instantly jerked out of her reverie.
What am I doing?
Do it, do it, Isabeau urged her. But her dominion of Holly had ebbed.
Flamed-cheeked, Holly lowered her arm. The fireball vanished.
Then Isabeau was gone. Holly felt the connection break as surely as if someone had disconnected from a phone call.
Aghast at what she had said and done, she rushed into Amanda’s arms and murmured, “I’m sorry, Manda. I’m sorry.” She burst into tears.
“It’s all right,” Amanda murmured. But the fear that lingered in her tone gave the lie to her words.
Her face against her cousin’s shoulder, Holly said, “We’ll go to Nicole. We’ll save her.”
Sir William, James, and Nicole:
The Supreme Coven headquarters, November
Sir William looked on with great pleasure—and wistful envy—as Nicole Anderson, bewitched into mute obedience, placed her hand in his son’s. Sir William himself bound them together with herb-soaked rope and cut their palms to mingle their blood.
He’ll bed her, take her power, lure the remaining Gathers witches here, and then I’ll have all three of them burned alive on Yule.
The news had just come in: Holly Cathers and what was left of her coven had just snuck into London for the express purpose of saving Nicole.
He was amused by how cautiously they skulked about; José Luís’s coven had done the same. Didn’t they realize that London was the home base of the Supreme Coven? That nothing that went on here escaped notice?
Nothing. Surely James knows I’m aware of his many plots and schemes to depose me, he thought as he beamed at his son the bridegroom. Michael Deveraux must realize that as well
The Deveraux are such wonderful loose cannons. One never knows which way they’ll aim . . . and once their fuses are lit, whom they will hit.
It makes life interesting. And when one has lived as long as I have, that’s a rare and precious gift—precious enough to keep dangerous foes alive when they should be rotting in the garden with their eyes gouged out.
Before him, the little bride, swathed in black from head to toe, swayed slightly and blinked her eyes. In those eyes he read her horror and dismay to find herself utterly powerless to stop the marriage. She could not speak, could not refuse to marry James.
Happy to rub salt in that wound, Sir William lifted up the cup into which their blood had been dripping and toasted them, saying, “It’s done. You’re married.”
Then, almost in the same breath, he turned to a very young and very ambitious warlock named Ian, whose real ambition was to become a producer-director in Hollywood, and said, “Search for Holly Cathers and her followers and take them down. If you can’t contain her, destroy her on the spot.”
Michael, Eli, and Laurent: Seattle, November
The moon had waned and waxed, and now it was full again. The Anderson family mansion was deserted. Polite inquiries had yielded the information that Richard Anderson had relocated, at least temporarily, although neither the phone company drone, the utility minion, or the travel agent Richard usually used could tell Michael where they had gone.
None of his scrying arcana in the house could tell him either.
No matter. I’ll find him soon enough ... if I need him.
He stood in the backyard of the fine mansion with Laurent and Eli, who was newly back from London with the news that James had married Nicole.
Eli had gotten the distinct vibe that it might be time to step well away from all the intrigues in London and reassess his position. He had not been able to kill Jer—yet—and he had figured out that before he managed it he’d better have a significant peace offering to give his father, or he might end up dead as well.
“There it is,” Michael said, pointing to a rosebush in the backyard. Roses did not normally bloom in November, at least not in Seattle, and yet the bush was bursting with color, despite the fact that moonlight usually bled red to gray.
Then Fantasme the spirit-falcon appeared in the sky and flew down to join the party. Michael smiled in greeting, and Eli nodded. Laurent sighed with pleasure and held out his arm. In his living days, Fantasme had been his boon companion on many a day of hunting.
Then Michael got down to business. He took a deep breath and found his center, then spread his arms wide and spoke to the earth.
“I bid thee, rise, and become one of mine,” he commanded.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and it began to rain.
Michael did not move, but repeated the incantation a second time. “I bid thee, rise, and become one of mine.”
The rain came down harder.
“We should have brought umbrellas,” Eli muttered. Laurent silenced him with a harsh glare. But that was all he did. The great lord of the Deveraux had already started adjusting to the realities of modern life . . . including mouthy young many-times-great-grandchildren.
Lightning flashed again.
“I bid thee, rise, and become one of mine.”
The rosebush shook and an ungodly howl of fury echoed from beneath the ground.
As the three looked on, the muddy earth from which the rosebush grew began to shift.
A y
owl issued from the mud, followed by a low, menacing hiss.
“I command thee, live,” Michael said, flinging wide his arms.
A single paw shot up from the mud. Then the mud heaved; in the pouring, hard rain, the dead familiar, Hecate, wobbled onto her four legs and blinked her golden eyes.
“I have given you back your life,” Michael said to her, “which was taken from you by the witch Holly Cathers. Will you serve me now?”
Hecate opened her mouth.
“I freed you from death,” he reminded her. “Will you serve me now?”
She shuddered.
“I will,” she said.
That done, Michael wheeled around in a circle, inundated by the storm. The winds howled and screamed; lightning flashed and crackled.
“Who else?” he demanded.
The rain poured down and clouds raced across the moon. “Who enters my service? Who joins my coven?”
“I will,” came a chorus.
Hecate jumped into his arms. He petted her fondly as, all around him, forms took shape: dead men, dead women, gnomes and spirits, disfigured demons, and imps bearing the scars of torture.
Michael understood. They were who had come up against the Cahors before and been cut down, often savagely. The Cahors had never shown their enemies any mercy—a fact which Isabeau had conveniently ignored, in her so-called “plan” to spare Jean from burning to death. The need for revenge was so great in these who had answered his summons that it had kept them earthbound—a kind of living, if one stretched the definition.
“We’ll find her together,” he promised them. “And we will make her and her coven pay for everything every Cahors has ever done to any of us.”
“For everything,” the bled, gray dead chorused.
Michael smiled at them and at Laurent, who looked on approvingly and said, “Bien. Well done.”
Michael replied, “I promised her I would kill her by midsummer. And I will.”
Jer: Avalon, December
On Avalon, Jer paced his cell, listening to his informant as she told him, “The Cathers/Anderson Coven is said to be in London. Sir William and James are searching for them everywhere.”
I must not send my spirit out to her, or they might track her, Jer thought, stricken by the news. I told her to stay well away from me. . .