by Nancy Holder
“That is all true,” Luc said boldly.
Moore looked over the top of the scroll. What he had to say next clearly displeased him.
“Ten years ago, we informed you that all would be forgiven you, if you would but give us the secret of the conjuring of the Black Fire, a secret your family has kept from this Brotherhood for too long.”
“We would willingly share such a secret, were we privy to it,” Luc proclaimed. He held out his hands, which were chained together. “Alas, we know it not.”
Several of the Judges looked at him askance, as if they didn’t believe him. He was supremely frustrated. Deveraux had died under torture because others had believed they still retained the secret of the Black Fire. They had been persecuted, courted, and abandoned. For centuries, the belief persisted that the Deveraux kept the secret, waiting for the proper moment to conjure the Black Fire. If only that were true, he thought.
“Since you are so recalcitrant,” Moore continued, “this is our sentence: that your family be exiled from this coven and from Europe for a period of one hundred years, at which time your House may reapply for Brotherhood. You are to have no contact with us for one hundred years. If during that time you find that you are able to conjure the Black Fire once again, you may contact us. Otherwise, we sever all relations with your House.”
He stared at them in disbelief. They are giving me my freedom? Allowing his family to work on counterplots without being held accountable to the Supreme Coven?
Luc almost laughed in their faces. He couldn’t believe their idiocy.
“Your family will be exiled to the Americas,” Moore continued, “for one hundred years. You are to stay there. If a Deveraux, or a Deveraux familiar, so much as places one foot in an ocean, we will annihilate your family.”
He held up a hand. “And your spirit-familiar, Fantasme, will remain here as hostage, until the one hundred years of exile have been completed. If we discover that you have attempted to leave your prison country, we will kill the bird and scatter its soul to the winds of time.”
As if to underscore this pronouncement, Moore clapped his hands. Two robed warlocks rested a thick pole across their shoulders; hanging from the pole was a spiked cage. In the cage, the proud bird was capped and hobbled, huddling miserably and clearly in pain.
“What have you done to him?” Luc demanded, taking a step forward.
“Think of him as your whipping boy,” Moore said, delighting in Luc’s distress. “If any in your family misbehave, Fantasme will pay for it with torture.”
Luc clamped his mouth shut. It would do no good to protest, or to ask for mercy on Fantasme’s behalf. Besides, Fantasme was a Deveraux. The bird would sooner die a slow, miserable death than hear a fellow Deveraux plead for anything, much less his life.
“Very well,” Luc said curtly, inclining his head with a regal air. “I accept the sentence of the court.”
Moore broke into a smile and gave a curt nod to the robed warlock who held the torch. The man set it to the Deveraux colors. The flames caught the fabric, raging across the face of the Green Man. The smoke reached Fantasme’s nostrils, and the bird tried to flap its wings and cry out. But it was tightly bound, and its mouth within the mask stayed silent.
The judges said in unison, “House Deveraux is banished. Woe unto the warlock who gives them succor, who befriends them, who aids them. House Deveraux is to us as dead.”
They each took a drink of wine from the goblets before them. Then, as they swallowed, they picked up the black tapirs, turned them upside down, and smashed the flickering wicks against the surface of the table.
The only light in the hall emanated from the flames destroying House Deveraux’s banner.
“Leave us,” Moore said to Luc. “Turn your back and run, for you have until the next moon to be gone from these shores. If we find you among us, we will destroy Fantasme, and then will hack you and all your fellows to pieces and feed them to the Hell Hounds. We will mount your heads on the traitor’s gate and we will give your souls to Satan.”
Luc turned. He needed no more encouragement to be gone.
His robes flapped around him as the others watched him in silence. His boots rang on the cold stones of the Great Hall. Smoke trailed after him, accompanied by the whoosh of the fire eating up his family’s colors.
By my honor, the Cahors shall pay for this, he thought. I will hunt them down and destroy them unceasingly.
And in time, we’ll take down House Moore as well.
This I vow, by my soul.
May Satan devour it if I fail.
Attend, Cahors: We are in an everlasting vendetta. May death come to any Deveraux who spares any one of you.
TWO
MOONSTONE
Casting, seeking, we hunt our prey
By the light of blessed day
We curse the moon as it does rise
With all its subtle female ties
We worship the Goddess divine
Above us, the full moon is a sign
Peace to all, friends and kin
Who hold the Goddess deep within
The Cathers Coven: London
Sasha was worried. Holly was beginning to spin out of control again, as she had in the Moon Temple back in Paris. Holly was the most powerful witch alive, but Sasha feared she was too young to carry such an awesome responsibility. Powerful as she was, though, she would still be no match for the Supreme Coven.
Joel came to sit by her side so silently, so stealthily, that she almost did not hear him. She opened her eyes and saw the concern on his face. “Well, what do you think of our little coven?”
“Most of them are... broken,” he said, his tongue lingering on the last word.
She nodded agreement. “Holly lost her best friend and her parents, discovered she was a witch, and became head of her own coven all within a year. During that time she’s been constantly battling Michael Deveraux. Now we have the whole Supreme Coven on our heels.”
He raised his brows. “That’s too large a burden for anybody to carry alone.”
“Holly’s not alone,” Amanda said defensively from the doorway.
Joel inclined his head, inviting her to join them. “No, she’s not, but that’s how she feels.”
Amanda moved toward them, arms crossed over her chest. She looked angry, but more than that, she looked frightened. Joel and Sasha moved apart so that she could sit between them. She hesitated only a moment before collapsing onto the sofa.
“She scares me,” she whispered so low, Sasha had to strain to hear her. “She just really let me have it. I got freaked out. I thought, what if I piss her off too much?”
She began to cry softly, and Sasha pulled her close, whispering words of healing over her. Joel joined in, his gentle brogue washing over them. Sasha could feel all Amanda’s grief for the loss of her mother, her fear for her father and her sister, and her sense of responsibility for Holly and Holly’s actions.
Slowly Amanda stopped crying and sat up. “What did you do to me?” she muttered. “I feel great.”
“Joel’s a healer,” Sasha said, smiling at the male witch.
“It’s second nature for most Druids.”
“Druids?” Amanda asked.
“Aye. I’m descended from Celts. Druids draw power from the earth and try to find harmony and balance within it and mirror it within themselves.”
“And you worship the Goddess?” Amanda asked, starting to sound sleepy.
He nodded. “It’s a small step from Mother Earth to Goddess. In fact, many would argue that it’s not a step at all.”
Amanda nodded. “Thank you. For everything you’re doing for us, and me.” Her words were starting to slur, and her eyes began blinking shut.
He shrugged. “I do only what I can.”
Sasha locked eyes with Joel. “Feeling up to doing some more?”
He nodded.
A gentle snore emanated from Amanda. The girl had fallen asleep, her chin on her chest. Sasha and Joel stood and carefully
moved her so she was lying down on the sofa.
Together they moved silently to the other room. They moved first to Silvana and moved their hands through the air above the girl’s body. Sasha could feel her anxiety, her concern for her mother, who was back in the States protecting the shaman, Dan Carter, and Amanda’s father, Richard. They spoke words of calming and strength over her and prayed to the Goddess to protect those left behind.
Next they moved to Tommy. Like Amanda, he was afraid of Holly. His concern, though, was primarily for Amanda, afraid that she might get hurt. His fear for her was matched only by his love for her. They murmured words of strength and peace over him that he might be a rock for her.
When they passed their hands over Kari, her terror was nearly enough to make Sasha scream. She glanced at Joel’s face and saw the horror that Kari felt mirrored there. They worked for several minutes, trying to purge her mind and soul and body of the crippling fear. Sasha knew that if they couldn’t, sooner or later Kari’s inability to take action would get her killed.
They straightened and stared at each other for a long moment as they each took deep, cleansing breaths. Then as one they turned toward the bed where Holly lay.
Only, Holly was sitting up staring straight at them. She smiled slowly, and the sight sent a chill down Sasha’s spine.
“Please, no,” Holly told them in a reasonable voice. “Thanks for helping them and thanks for helping my ankle. But I don’t want you in my mind. That’s private.”
Sasha debated about arguing with her for only the briefest moment. She could feel the rage flowing off of Holly. The girl barely had it under control, and it would do none of them any good to push her. Sasha locked eyes with Holly for one brief moment. In time we will continue this discussion, the older witch thought.
Holly gave Sasha the briefest of nods to acknowledge that she understood her message.
We will never continue the discussion, Holly thought as she plumped up her pillow. She had scented it with lavender, to combat sadness, and rosemary, for remembrance. What’s in my heart is private. And I’m getting tired of Sasha trying to second-guess my every move. I said we’d rescue Nicole first, and we will.
But if it were up to me … how could I choose between my cousin and the power of a love that goes beyond me and Jer?
Stonily she closed her eyes. The daytime world would remind her that Nicole was family, blood. Jer was an outsider in more ways than one. He was from another magical House; his brother and father were bent on killing Holly and anyone she met on her path. Of all the time she had known him, she had physically been around him only a few days at most.
But if it were up to me …
She was drifting now, as rosy mists washed over her eyelids. Her body gently unwound from all the trials, cares, and worries. She heard the lap of calm seas against wood, a warm, soft sound like a kitten savoring cream. The sky was fresh and clear, the waters smooth and still. She was drifting, yet her little boat glided steadily for the island.
The sun glinted off the battlements of an ancient castle; wild roses enclosed it, hands to heart, nature’s velvety red Claddagh rings. Each arched window was a stained-glass letter, rippling in the sun as the boat moved closer. They spelled R-E-S-C-U-E.
She was not afraid. It was going to be easy.
The island grew as she sailed to it; the shoreline was welcoming, a carpet of moss and ferns greeting the hull as her wooden boat touched land. As she stood, she looked down and saw that she was gowned in Cahors black and silver, lacy long sleeves touching the hem of her straight skirt. There was a circlet around her black curly hair, and earrings that cascaded to her shoulders. A matching belt of silver hung low over her hips.
The boat was upholstered in black velvet; the oarlocks were silver. As she stepped out of the boat, a small figurehead at the bow lifted one hand and saluted her. It was a Greek warrior woman, her helmet pushed back to reveal a serene smile of confidence and pride.
Even in ancient Greece, my line had power, Holly thought. Our blood has ennobled women for centuries.
With that knowledge came more certainty that she was going to rescue her one true love.
Her slippered foot touched soft fern, and then …
… she was walking through the gentle forest; birdsong greeted her as she entered a glade washed with sunshine. In the center, an enormous oak rose to the heavens, its lush branches providing a canopy for the man who lounged beneath it.
It was Jer, with his dark hair curling around his ears, and his dark, Deveraux eyes. He was crowned with ivy, and he lay on a bed of oak leaves. His face was angular and slightly weathered, and he was more muscular than she remembered.
He’s older. He’s matured.
When he caught sight of her, his face lit up. His dark eyes gleamed hungrily, and he rose from the nest of leaves. His head was held proudly, his bearing noble, graceful.
Then he spread his wings and flew to her.
She lifted her own, and they gave flight.
“Jer,” she murmured as they traveled to the moon, to the stars, to the heart of the sky. “Jeraud Deveraux, I am thine.”
“Mine, and none other,” he whispered. “Et nul autre.”
In the night, in the dark, Holly sighed and dreamed. In the hall, watching her, Sasha worried.
She’s going to turn against us someday, she thought, terribly troubled. Then she left her High Priestess to her dreams. That was all they were—dreams. There was no truth in them.
None at all.
The Coven of White Magic: London, December
Evil traveled best at night, and so José Luís’s coven raced to cover as much ground as they could by day.
Except, it’s not José Luís’s coven anymore, Philippe thought. It’s mine.
The Coven was made up of four male witches of French or Spanish heritage. The four worshiped the Goddess in their own unique way, blending it with the Catholicism practiced by their families. The most solemn of their number, Armand, had even studied for the priesthood before joining the Coven. Alonzo was older, the father figure and benefactor of the group. Pablo was a teenager, the younger brother of José Luís. José Luís’s death had left Philippe in charge.
The Coven had found Nicole Anderson, descendant of the Cahors witches, and had been trying to protect her from the evil that pursued her. They had failed and the warlocks who had captured Nicole had killed José Luís during their attack. Their coven leader had been their only casualty … if one could use the term only. Losing José Luís had been like losing a brother.
He was my best friend, my copain. And they killed him. They won’t get away with it.
The others grouped behind him, as if awaiting his order to move, to breathe. Astarte, the cat Nicole had adopted a few days before her capture, purred as she settled in Armand’s arms, kneading his forearm as she gazed intently at Philippe. She was clearly awaiting her orders as well.
They had driven their car to the outskirts of Paris and left it there, in case the Supreme Coven had cast finders’ spells on them. They had dumped their robes into the waters of the English Channel, and warded one another with protection spells as best they could.
At each juncture of their journey, they had turned to José Luís’s true little brother, Pablo, whose senses were most acute—and who could often read minds— for guidance on where to go next. It made sense that he would lead them to London, for the Supreme Coven had claimed that ancient city as their territory for centuries. After the Great Fire of London, the Mother Coven had retreated … and the citizens of London had paid, and paid dearly, for that act of cowardice— Jack the Ripper had been one consequence, and the many bombings perpetuated by the IRA had been another. Mad cow disease had run rampant courtesy of the Supreme Coven.
And now they have Nicole, Philippe thought angrily. Goddess, protect her from their savagery. Deliver them into our hands and let us free her.
“Anything?” he asked Pablo. José Luís’s strong Spanish features were evident in P
ablo’s face as he raised his chin and closed his eyes, frowning in concentration. The others remained motionless, watching him, willing him to lead them to their enemies.
They stood at the traffic circle of Piccadilly Circus, a Virgin Megastore on their left, and a huge Grecian-style museum on their right. Directly before them, cars swirled around an obelisk topped by the statue of a war hero. Pablo had guided them here, sensing the strength of the Supreme Coven’s dark influence as his compass point. It had become very strong … but now had disappeared.
They hide well.
Just like they kill.
When Pablo said nothing, only exhaled and gazed down at the pavement, a collective sigh went up. They were getting tired, and nerves were fraying, and Philippe knew he had to do something to bolster their spirits, keep their confidence high and their focus strong.
Then Pablo murmured, “Momento. There’s someone …” He cocked his head as if listening to sounds Philippe could not detect. Then his eyes widened. “Una bruja,” he whispered, and pointed across the street.
At that very moment, a striking young woman half-turned, her glance brushing over the Coven as if by accident. Philippe caught his breath. Nicole!
Astarte’s tail flicked wildly as if she, too, recognized her mistress.
The woman’s hair tumbled wildly around her face, masses of ringlets and curls; she had very black eyebrows and intense eyes. She was thin, and wiry.
But she was not Nicole.
She was, however, of witchblood.
She appeared to realize that Philippe and the others were too.
Though the crowd surged around her, she remained rooted to the spot, her lips moving, making a discreet gesture with her left hand. She was casting a spell.
Then everything changed; the scene around Philippe stretched and slowed down; people walked past him in slow motion; voices dragged; even the light changed, becoming oddly diffuse and washing the scene with strange off-colors.
The witch glided toward them, although in some portion of his mind, Philippe realized that she was not moving. She was projecting her persona as a confrontation; her eyes crackled with energy. She raised her arms and asked in a strangely echoate voice, De quien eres?