The Sign of Seven Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  He settled into his usual spot on the floor with Lump. Whatever was in the air, Fox thought, was something between nerves and fear. That was from the women. From Cal and Gage he sensed both interest and impatience.

  “What’s going on? And whatever it is, let’s get on with it.”

  Cybil took the stage.

  “I’ve talked with a number of people I know and, for the most part, trust, regarding performing a blood ritual, the object being to re-form the three pieces of Dent’s bloodstone into one. We’re assuming that’s something we need to do. There are a lot of assumptions here based on bits and pieces of information, on speculation.”

  “The three separate pieces haven’t done us much good up till now,” Gage pointed out.

  “Well, you don’t know that, do you?” Cybil tossed back. “It’s very possible that those individual pieces are what’s given you your gifts—your sight, your healing. Once whole, you might lose that. And without those gifts in your arsenal, you’ll be all the more vulnerable to Twisse.”

  “If you don’t put them back together,” Cal pointed out, “they’re just three pieces of stone we don’t understand. We agreed to try. We have tried. If you’ve found another way, that’s what we’ll try next.”

  “Blood rites are powerful and dangerous magicks. We’re dealing with a powerful and dangerous force already. You need to know all the possible consequences. All of us need to know. And all of us have to agree because all of us need to be part of it for the ritual to have any chance of working. I’m not going to agree until everyone understands.”

  “We get it.” Gage shrugged. “Cal may need to dig out his glasses, and the three of us will be susceptible to the common cold.”

  “Don’t make light of this.” Cybil turned to him. “You could lose what you have, and more. It could all blow up in our faces. You’ve seen that possibility. The mix of blood and fire, the stone on the stone. Every living thing consumed. It was your blood that let the demon out. We need to consider that performing this rite could loose something worse.”

  “You have to play to win.”

  “He’s right.” Fox nodded at Gage. “We risk it, or we do nothing. We believe Ann Hawkins or we don’t. This was the time, that’s what she told Cal. This Seven is the all or nothing, and the stone—whole—is a potential weapon. I believe her. She sacrificed her life with Dent, and that sacrifice led to us. One into three, three into one. If there’s a way, we go.”

  “There’s another three. Q, Layla, and me. Our blood, tainted if you will, with that of the demon.”

  “And carrying that of the innocent.” Layla sat with her hands folded, as if she held something delicate inside them. “Hester Deale wasn’t evil. Innocent blood, you said, Cybil, innocent blood is a powerful element in ritual.”

  “So I’m told.” Cybil let out a sigh. “I was also warned that the innocent can be used to give the demon strain more power. That a ritual such as we’re suggesting could be an invitation. Three young boys were changed by a blood rite on that ground. It could happen again, with us.” She looked at Layla, at Quinn. “And what’s diluted, or dormant, or just outweighed in us by who we are, could rise.”

  “Not going to happen.” Quinn spoke briskly. “Not only because I don’t consider horns and cloven feet a fashion statement but”—she ignored Cybil’s annoyed oath— “because we won’t let it. Cyb, you’re too goddamn hard-headed to let a little demon DNA run your show. And you’re not responsible. Don’t even,” Quinn ordered when Cybil started to speak. “Nobody knows you like I do. If we vote go, we’re all in it, we’re all making the choice. And whatever happens, thumbs-up or -down, it’s not on you. You’re just the messenger.”

  “Understand if it goes wrong, it could go seriously and violently wrong.”

  “If it goes right,” Fox reminded Cybil, “it’s a step toward saving lives. Toward ending this.”

  “More likely we’ll lose a little blood and not a damn thing will change. Any way you look at it, it’s a long shot,” Gage added. “I like a long shot. I’m in.”

  “Anyone not?” Quinn scanned the room. “That’s a big go.”

  “Let’s get started.”

  “Not so fast, big guy,” Cybil said to Gage. “While the ritual’s pretty straightforward, there are details and procedure. It requires the six of us—boy-girl, boy-girl—like any good dinner party, in the standard ritual circle. On the ritual ground at the Pagan Stone. Cal, I don’t suppose you have the knife you used before?”

  “My Boy Scout knife? Sure I do.”

  “Sure he does.” Charmed, Quinn leaned over to kiss his cheek.

  “We’ll need that. I have a list of what we’ll need. And we’ll work out the wording of the incantation. We have to wait for the night of the full moon, and begin in the half hour before midnight, finish before the half hour after.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Ritual requires ritual,” she snapped at Gage. “And respect, and a hell of a lot of faith. The full moon gives us light, literally and magickally. The half hour before midnight is the time of good, and the half hour after, evil. That’s the time, that’s the place, and that’s our best shot of making it work. Think of it as stacking the odds in our favor. We’ve got two weeks to fine-tune it, work out the kinks—or to call off the whole deal and go to St. Barts. Meanwhile . . .” She looked into her empty glass. “I’m out of wine.”

  As the discussion started immediately, Gage slipped off to follow Cybil into the kitchen. “What’s got you spooked?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She poured herself a generous glass of cabernet. “Must be the death and damnation.”

  “You don’t spook easy, so spill.”

  She took a small sip as she turned to him. “You’re not the only one who gets previews of coming attractions.”

  “What did you see this time?”

  “I saw my best friend die, and the death of the woman I’ve come to love and respect. I saw the men who love them die trying to save them. I saw your death in blood and fire. And I lived. Why is that worse? That I saw everyone die, and I lived.”

  “Sounds more like nerves and guilt than a premonition.”

  “I don’t do guilty, as a rule. On the plus side, in my dream it worked. I saw the bloodstone whole, resting on the Pagan Stone under the light of the full moon. And for a moment, it was brighter than the sun.”

  She took a long, quiet breath. “I don’t want to walk out of the clearing alone, so do me a favor. Don’t die.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Nineteen

  OUTSIDE, UNDER THE DIM LIGHT OF THE WAXING moon, Layla kissed Fox good night. And that brush of lips slid into a second, soft and seductive as the night air. “I just think I need to stay here tonight.” But she melted into him for another. “Cybil’s edgy, Quinn’s distracted. And they’ve been poking at each other. They need a referee.”

  “I could stay.” Gently, he grazed his teeth over her bottom lip. “Back you up.”

  “Then I’d be distracted. I’m already distracted.” With a little groan, she eased away. “Besides, I have a feeling you’ll be going to Cal’s. The three of you are going to want to talk this over.”

  “It’s a lot.” He ran his hands down her arms. “You’re up for it.”

  “That wasn’t a question.”

  “No. I could see it. I can see it now.”

  Very little could have pleased her more than that single, almost casual, vote of confidence. “Time to take the next step. And by the way, I need tomorrow off.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?” She shook her head. “No what for, or who the hell’s going to run the office?”

  “Three or four times a year—that was the limit—we could take a day off school. We just said, I don’t want to go to school tomorrow, and that was okay. Never had to fake sick or sneak a hook day in. I figure the same applies to work.”

  She leaned into him, arms around his waist, hands linked togethe
r. “I’ve got a terrific boss. He even sends his parents in to check on me when he’s out of the office.”

  Fox winced. “I may have mentioned that—”

  “It’s all right. In fact, it’s better than all right. I had a nice chat with your mother, then one with your dad—who dazzles me a little because you look so much like him when you smile.”

  “Number One O’Dell Charm Tool. Never fails.”

  She laughed, leaned back. “There’s something I should tell you before you go. I’ve been working it out in my head for a while now, then today, when I was talking to your father, something occurred to me. Why was I working on it so much? Why couldn’t it just be? Because, well, it is.”

  “What is?”

  “I’m in love with you.” She let out a half laugh. “I love you, Fox. You’re the best man I know.”

  He couldn’t find words, not with so much blowing through him. I love you, she said, with a smile that made the words sparkle in the dark. So he lowered his brow to hers, closed his eyes, and gave himself to the moment. Here she was, he thought. Everything else was details.

  Then tipping her head back, he kissed her brow, her cheeks before laying his lips on hers. “You’re telling me this, then sending me home?”

  She laughed again. “Afraid so.”

  “Maybe you could just come over for an hour. Make it two.” He kissed her again, deeper, and deeper. “Let’s go for three.”

  “I want to, but . . .”

  Even as she started to yield—what was an hour or two when you were in love—Gage came out of the front door. “Sorry.” He glanced at Fox, cocked his head. Fox nodded.

  “How do the two of you manage to have a conversation without speaking?” Layla wondered as Gage strode down to his car.

  “Probably has something to do with knowing each other since birth. I’m going to ride with him.” Fox caught her face in his hands. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow night.”

  “I love you.” He kissed her again. “Damn it, I’ve gotta go.” And again. “Tomorrow.”

  When he walked to the car, his mind was too full of her for him to notice the dark cloud that smothered the moon.

  LEAVE IT TO QUINN, LAYLA THOUGHT, TO FIND the perfect bridal boutique. Every minute of the two-and-a-half-hour drive had been worth it once they’d arrived at the charming three-story Victorian house with its stunning gardens. Layla’s retailer’s eye noted the details—the color schemes, the decor, the fussily female sitting areas, the oh-so-flattering lighting.

  And the stock. Displays of gowns, shoes, headdresses, underpinnings, all so creatively contrived, made Layla feel as if she wandered along a wedding cake, with all its froth and elegance.

  “Too many choices. Too many. I’m going to choke.” Quinn gripped Cybil’s arm.

  “You’re not. We’ve got all day. God, have you ever seen so much white? It’s a blizzard of tulle, a winter forest of shantung.”

  “Well, there’s white, and ivory, cream, champagne, ecru,” Layla began. “I’d go for the white with your coloring, Quinn. You can pull it off.”

  “You pick one. That’s what you do—did—right?” Quinn rubbed a hand over her throat. “Why am I so nervous?”

  “Because you only get married the first time once.”

  Quinn poked at Cybil and laughed. “Shut up. Okay.” She took a steadying breath. “Natalie’s setting up the dressing room,” she said, referring to the shop’s manager. “I’ll try on what she’s picked out. But we’re all going to pick at least one gown each. And we have to vow to be honest. If the gown sucks on me, we say so. Everybody, spread out. Dressing room, twenty minutes.”

  “You’ll know yours when you see yourself in it. That’s the way it works.” But Layla wandered off.

  She looked at lace, silk, satin, beads. She studied lines and trains and necklines. As she stood, eyeing a gown, visualizing Quinn in it, Natalie bustled over.

  Her cap of salt-and-pepper hair suited her gamine face. Small, black-framed glasses set it off. She was tiny and trim in a dark suit Layla imagined she chose to contrast rather than blend with the gowns.

  “Quinn’s ready, but doesn’t want to start without you. We’ve got six gowns to start.”

  “I wonder if we can add this one.”

  “Of course, I’ll take care of it.”

  “How long have you been in business?”

  “My partner and I opened four years ago. I managed a bridal boutique in New York for several years before relocating.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “I Do, Upper East Side.”

  “Terrific place. A friend of mine bought her gown there just a few years ago. I live—lived—” Which was it? Layla wondered. “Um, in New York. I managed a boutique downtown. Urbania.”

  “I know that store.” Natalie beamed. “Small world.”

  “It is. Can I ask what made you leave I Do and New York, open here?”

  “Oh, Julie and I talked about it endlessly over the years. We’ve been friends since our college days. She found this place, called me and said, ‘Nat, this is it.’ She was right. I thought she was crazy. I thought I was crazy, but she was right.” Natalie angled her head. “Do you know what it’s like when you find the customer exactly what she wants— exactly what’s right. The look on her face, the tone in her voice?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Triple it when it’s your own place. Should I take you to the dressing room?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  There was tea in delicate china cups in a spacious room with a tall triple mirror and chairs with needlepoint cushions. Paper-thin cookies waited on a silver tray while blush pink lilies and white roses scented the air.

  Layla sat, sipped, while Quinn worked her way through the selections.

  “It doesn’t suck.” Cybil pursed her lips as Quinn turned in front of the mirror. “But it’s too fussy for you. Too much . . .” She circled her hand. “Poof,” she decided.

  “I like the beadwork. It’s all sparkly.”

  “No,” was all Layla said, and Quinn sighed.

  “Next.”

  “Better,” Cybil decided. “And I’m not just saying that because it’s the one I picked out. But if we’re considering this the most important dress of your life, it’s still not ringing the bell. I think it’s too dignified—not quite enough fun.”

  “But I look so elegant.” Quinn turned, her eyes shining as she watched herself in the triple glass. “Almost, I don’t know, regal. Layla?”

  “You can carry it with your height and build, and the lines are classic. No.”

  “But—” Quinn blew out a breath that vibrated her lips.

  After two more tries and rejections, Quinn took a tea break in her bra and panties. “Maybe we should elope. We could go to Vegas, have an Elvis impersonator marry us. That could be fun.”

  “Your mother would kill you,” Cybil reminded her as she broke one of the delicate cookies in two and offered Quinn half. “So would Frannie,” she added, referring to Cal’s mother.

  “Maybe I’m just not built for the gown kind of thing. Maybe a cocktail dress is a better idea. We don’t have to go so formal and fussy,” she said as she set down the tea and picked another gown at random. “This skirt is probably going to make my ass look ten feet square.” Her glance at Layla was apologetic. “Sorry, this one’s your pick.”

  “It’s your pick that counts. It’s ruching—called a pickup skirt,” Layla explained.

  “Or we could just go for completely casual, a backyard wedding and reception. All this is just trappings.” She spoke to Cybil as Layla helped her into the dress. “I love Cal. I want to marry Cal. I want the day to be a celebration of that, of what we are to each other, and to what the six of us have accomplished. I want it to symbolize our commitment, and our happiness, with a kick-ass party. I mean, for God’s sake, with all we’ve faced, and are going to face, one stupid dress doesn’t mean a thing.”

  As Layla stepped back,
she turned around. “Oh my God.” Breathless, she stared at herself. The heart-shaped bodice of the strapless gown showed off strong, toned shoulders and arms, and glittered with a sprinkle of cut-glass beads. The skirt fell from a trim waist in soft ruches of taffeta accented with pearls.

  With her fingertips, Quinn touched the skirt very lightly “Cyb?”

  “Well, God.” Cybil knuckled a tear away. “I didn’t expect to react this way. Jesus, Q, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

  “Please tell me it doesn’t make my ass look ten feet square. Lie if you must.”

  “Your ass looks great. Damn, I need a tissue.”

  “Remember everything I just said about the dress and the trappings not being important? Now forget I said any of that. Layla.” Quinn closed her eyes, crossed her fingers. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t have to tell you. You know it’s yours.”

  SPRING BROUGHT COLOR TO THE HOLLOW WITH greening willows reflected in the pond at the park, with the redbuds and wild dogwoods blooming in the woods, along the roadsides. The days lengthened and warmed in a teasing preview of the summer to come.

  With spring, porches gleamed with fresh paint and gardens shot out a riot of blooms. Lawnmowers hummed and buzzed until the smell of freshly cut grass sweetened the air. Kids played baseball, and men cleaned their barbecue grills.

  And with spring, the dreams came harder.

  Fox woke in a cold sweat. He could still smell the blood, the hellsmoke, the charred bodies of the doomed and damned. His throat throbbed from the shouts that had ripped out of him in dreams. Running, he thought, he’d been running. His lungs still burned from the effort, and his heart still drummed. He’d been running through the deserted streets of the Hollow, flaming buildings around him, as he tried to reach Layla before she . . .

  He reached over; found her gone.

  He leaped out of bed, snagging a pair of boxers on the run. He called out for her, but he knew—before he saw the door standing open, he knew where her own dream lured her.