Witch & Curse (20 page)

Holly felt a pang. Her father used to wish her
bonne nuit
—good night—in French. Maybe it was a family tradition, from being French and everything.
There's so much I don't know about my parents. And maybe I'll never know. I should ask Aunt Marie-Claire to tell me some more about Daddy's childhood
.

“Bonne nuit,”
she told her cousin, and went into her room.

Her deaf kitten scampered in after her. Holly took a deep breath and shut the door, leaning against it as she gazed around the room, watching to see if the cat freaked out. Weird things still happened in this room. The closet door liked to swing open in the night. The floorboards liked to creak. And the cat, who could not hear, didn't like any of it.

“So, my dear familiar,” she teased the cat as the two of them walked toward the bed. “Here's my wish list: getting to school on time, a good night's sleep, and . . .” She trailed off, too shy to mention a foolish desire to see Jer soon, even to the cat. “That's all,” she said.

The cat meowed and blinked her large blue eyes. She was such a petite little thing that her face was little more than her eyes and a tiny cupid-bow mouth and a dot of a nose.

Holly picked her up and whispered against her neck, “Oh God, I miss my mom and dad so much. I miss Tina. This was going to be our year.”

The cat purred and extended her right forepaw in such a human-like gesture of comfort that Holly couldn't find it in herself to smile. The pit in her stomach became a tight knot. Her throat closed up with unspoken grief and she thought,
How long am I going to feel this bad? Am I going to miss them like this for the rest of my life?

Tap, tap, Bast's forepaw touched on the back of her hand. She snuggled up and licked Holly's forearm, and Holly sank onto her bed.

She couldn't sleep; she tapped her fingers on her blanket to the steady drumbeat against the window. Just as she began to doze, she thought she heard a soft whispering outside her door.
Maybe it's one of my cousins. Maybe Amanda wants to talk about what happened in her room. Drama is obviously a touchy subject around here. . .
.

Holly yawned and opened her eyes.

She blinked.

Did I sleepwalk?

She was standing on the landing above the living room. She was in her nightgown, and she was looking down on Nicole and Marie-Claire, who were seated on the stonework in front of the large fireplace. Both of them were in their bathrobes. Nicole's was fireengine red. Marie-Claire's was black.

Several bundles of sticks lay beside them. Nicole picked one of them up, kissed it, and handed it to her mother.

Marie-Claire passed it over the warm, crackling fire and said, “Oh, Goddess, grant to Amanda the wishes of her heart. May a good young man love her truly, and may she discover her own talents and gifts.”

Holly was stunned.
What are they doing? Are they
actually doing that Wicca stuff? My own aunt?

“Blessed be,” Nicole said sweetly.

“Oh, Goddess, grant to Holly the wishes of her heart. Let her life with us be filled with ease and joy, and the feelings of a warm family.”

Is that why they're getting along so well?
Holly thought, shocked.
They've been . . . enchanting themselves?

“And better clothes,” Nicole added, giggling. Her mother gave her a stern look. Nicole cleared her throat and murmured, “Blessed be.”

Marie-Claire put down the bundle and said, “Now you.” She leaned over and gave Nicole a kiss on her forehead.

Nicole handed her another bundle.

“Oh, Goddess, grant to my beautiful Nicole the wishes of her heart. Fame on the stage, and love in her life.”

“That's great, Mom,” Nicole said. “You catch on quick.”

“It's incredible,” Marie-Claire gushed. “Who would ever have guessed?”

Holly was transfixed. Then, as mother and daughter carried the bundles of sticks to the fireplace, something brushed Holly's ankle. She caught her breath and turned to look.

The three cats, Freya, Hecate, and Bast, had
grouped around Holly's bare feet. Their yellow eyes gazed up at her. None of them moved; they sat still as if they wanted very much to speak to her. As if to say,
Blessed be
.

Then Bast opened her mouth and said in a perfectly human voice, “I shall serve thee, Holly Cathers. . . .”

Holly bolted upright, blinking at the sunlight streaming through the window of the Seattle guest room.

It was a dream
, she thought.
The dreams are back
.

Bast sat at the foot of the bed, staring at her, and began to purr.

In the dark-hearted chamber of the Deveraux house, Eli and Michael made obeisance to the Horned God. Michael had butchered a dozen lady hawks, symbol of the House of Cahors, and a dozen ravens, symbol of the Deveraux. After a long Ritual of flame and fire, Michael conjured Laurent for his older son, who stared openmouthed at what he saw.

Their ancestor took his own sweet time, and as usual, the French warlock appeared as a moldering corpse. Tonight he was nearly transparent, and his flesh was a stomach-churning blue-gray.

“This is Eli, my son,” Michael announced to the
half-formed cadaver. “Kneel,” he said through clenched teeth to the boy.

Hastily, Eli knelt.

“One of two sons,” Laurent said, through lips that did not move. “If he doesn't perform any better than your other child, he'd make a suitable sacrifice.”

Eli paled, and Laurent laughed, the sound echoing off the grisly walls that had seen pain and death, and even worse. Michael bowed on one knee and said, “He is my firstborn.”

“Firstborn sons are rare, and precious,” Laurent observed. “So much the better when a father must part with his.”

Michael remained silent, trying to gauge how serious Laurent was being.
Does he mean for me to kill Eli now? Is he testing me?

Because I'll pass that test. . .
.

He looked at his son with no other feeling in his heart except a mild regret.
Sasha was right; I can't love anyone. But she was wrong to leave me. There's such a thing as loyalty
.

Okay, I'm not big on loyalty, either. But she should have backed me up, not left me with two kids to take care of
.

Laurent paced the marble floor, although his footfalls made no noise. Michael watched him calmly. Eli was glancing at their athames on the altar, maybe
thinking about self-defense or patricide, Michael didn't know which.

“Your other son—Jeraud—has become possessed by the spirit of my child, Jean,” Laurent announced. “That is why he has run away from you.”

Michael's lips parted in surprise. Eli looked completely baffled, muttering, “Who's Jean?”

“Isabeau has succeeded in moving into the life of Holly Cathers,” the Duke continued.

“The Lord and the Lady,” Michael murmured, half to himself. He cocked his head as he regarded his patron. “You told me that it was only a legend, that Cahors magic mixed with Deveraux creates a far more powerful combination than the usual male and female magics I have attempted.”

“Which you attempted with Marie-Claire, against my direct orders,” Laurent added sternly.

“I was going to kill her,” Michael protested.

“You should. She and her daughters contain power, as well. But above all, it is the little
cousine
who must be destroyed.”

“Dad?” Eli whispered. “What's going on?”

“Shut up,” Michael hissed at him. To Laurent, he held out his hands. “Give me the Black Fire, my lord, and I will burn them all.”

At this, Laurent smiled bitterly. “First, the Cahors witches must be eliminated,” Laurent said. “We cannot proceed with the Black Fire as long as they're alive. If Holly Cathers were to decipher the spell, learn how to conjure it . . . it's unthinkable.”

Frustrated, but also hopeful, Michael crossed his arms over his chest and bowed.
“Oui, mon seigneur.”

“The anniversary of the betrayal is nigh. If Holly is not dead by Mead Moon, I will withdraw my patronage.” He wagged a skeletal finger at Michael, the flesh hanging from it. In place of the fingernail gleamed a talon, long and curved as the crescent moon. “Don't forget,
mortal
man, that I have time and I can wait. If you and your sons disappoint, I will recruit other Deveraux warlocks to help me. You are not alone in this world.”

Michael swallowed. It would be naive to assume they were the only descendants of the noble Deveraux Coven, but so far he had been unable to track down the others.
Someday . .
.

“Listen, um, my lord. Do we have to . . . should we kill all of the Cathers?” Eli asked Laurent. “Because one of them is my girlfri—”

The French nobleman stared down at him with utter disbelief. As Michael looked on, he advanced
threateningly on Eli, raised his taloned hand, and sliced at him, narrowly missing the kid's cheek.

“Arrogant child! You will speak when spoken to!” he thundered. Furious, he turned to Michael. “In what manner have you raised your heir?”

To Michael's surprise, Eli raised his chin and said, in a strong, calm voice, “These are different times, Duke Laurent. And I'm not a child.”

Laurent cocked his head. He looked at Eli long and hard, then said, as if to himself, “So it would appear.”

It was a rainy Thursday night. In Nicole's room Holly cradled Bast, and the cat was purring like crazy. Nicole stretched out on her bed and Amanda sprawled on the floor. They'd emptied two bags of microwave popcorn and drunk enough Diet Dr. Pepper to float the entire city of Seattle as they'd watched the Claire Danes and Leo DiCaprio production of
Romeo + Juliet
for the umpteenth time.

The senior play had been announced. It was going to be
Romeo and Juliet
.

Nicole wanted the lead, of course. She was studying all the versions she could find, looking for her interpretation.

“I'm the only one who can do it right,” she said, shaking her head at the TV.

“Uh-huh.” Amanda yawned as her cat climbed onto her stomach.

“I mean it.” Nicole stood up and stretched. Her towel-turbaned head reminded Holly of Erykah Badu. She struck a pose and her voice grew deeper than the sudden rumble of real thunder outside.

“Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die,
Take him, and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine,
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun . . .”

“You'll get the part, Nicole,” Holly assured her beautiful cousin.

Nicole looked off into the distance, seeing maybe Romeo, or maybe footlights and hearing applause. “I am Juliet, you know. I'm better than Claire Danes. And besides . . .”

She stirred, as if remembering that she wasn't alone. “Anyway, it'll be mine. I'll make it mine.”

Holly took that in.

Does she mean like with little bundles of sticks and blessings?

“Well, I hope you do,” Holly said.

Nicole picked up Hecate. “I want the lead.”

The cat swished her tail as if in reply.

A few more weeks passed.

Back in San Francisco, Barbara had been transferred to a long-term care unit in the hospital. She was still very ill, but no one knew why. She never got worse, but she never got better. The Cathers San Francisco home was being well taken care of; the horses at the stable were fine.

Nicole continued her campaign for Juliet, going so far as to learn the entire part before auditions were even held. Then, one rainy afternoon, Holly happened by the drama room to see when Nicole was going home. Nona Zeidel, the drama teacher, was seated at an oak desk next to a small stage draped with burgundy curtains. A distance away, two boys were painting a backdrop of a moonlit garden.

“I need it for my application to Cal Arts,” Nicole wheedled as Ms. Zeidel nibbled on a bag of pretzels and flipped through an open script book on her green blotter. “Maria Gutierrez has no plans to be a professional actress. She wants to be a
math teacher
.” She said it like it was a disease.

“Oh, my God, how boring,” Ms. Zeidel groaned, rolling her eyes. She popped another pretzel in her mouth and cocked her head. Holly could see that she was considering it.

“And I can make all the practices.” Nicole bent forward and tapped what looked to be an attendance logbook. “Check your records. I have never missed a rehearsal.”

Then, as Holly watched, Nicole did something rather weird: She dipped her hand in the pocket of her black pants, and while the teacher was chuckling with her head lowered, she crumbled something in Ms. Zeidel's hair, then made a small circle with her forefinger.

Ms. Zeidel looked thoughtful as she glanced through her attendance book. She shrugged, smiling broadly, as if she had come to a decision. A favorable one, at that. “Well, you know the school policy. I have to hold open auditions. . . .”