Witch & Curse (23 page)

“Better,” Holly said with a shrug. She regretted the move immediately when it set off a dull ache along the arm now immobilized against her chest in a nylon-and-canvas sling. They'd iced it to the point of freezing it off before the doctor had given it an excruciating double tug to set it properly, and now all she was waiting for was the last of the paperwork and a prescription for pain pills.

She desperately wanted to get out of here and go home—it was bad enough that she'd broken her arm, but did she have to endure sitting here in silver body powder and a costume and being stared at by everyone who passed? It was humiliating. Add to that the nauseating smells of overused antiseptic, bleach, and latex, plus the seemingly never-ending squawk of the intercom system, and Holly could have screamed . . . continuously. “I just can't wait to get out of here.”

Amanda nodded sympathetically. “I hate hospitals, too.” She didn't say anything for a long moment, and Holly shifted uncomfortably on the table. Had that been her earlier in the bedroom of Tommy's house, had she really almost fallen into bed with a guy she barely knew? The whole episode seemed weird, like it had happened to someone else . . . but of course, she had the proof of her own behavior right here, in the form of a nice, nasty jab up her arm that hit her at about every third pulse.

But what threw me across the room like that? Amanda?
No way could the slender girl have done something that required such strength.
And what about—

“I burned my hand,” Amanda said abruptly. She held out her left hand and, grimacing, unfolded her fingers. “See?”

Holly stared down at it, feeling her heartbeat quicken. After a moment, she used her right arm to hold the sling out enough so that Amanda could see the burn on her own left palm. “Look,” she said softly. “I have a nearly identical burn on mine.”

Amanda's mouth fell open. “What? Let me see.” She peered at Holly's hand, then finally twisted hers until she could get it side by side with Holly's immobilized one. “Wow—that looks like some kind of pattern, a flower of some sort.”

“Yeah,” Holly agreed. She had to practically press her chin against her chest to see it. “What do you think it means?”

Holly glanced at her cousin and found the other girl staring at her. Amanda said, “No clue.”

Holly said slowly, “One clue.”

Kari sulked all the way back to her apartment, where Jer was living, now that he had broken with his family.

“What were you doing to her?” she demanded. “You said we had to go there to warn them, and then I find you . . .” She clamped her mouth shut and stared out the window. “
Kissing
. . .”

Jer wanted to say, “I'm sorry.” But he wasn't.

Holly
.

Her name danced on his lips, in his veins. Touching her, feeling her move beneath him, knowing that she wanted him . . .

But it's not just about us. It's something to do with what is going on with my father and my brother
.

They are witches. I felt it. I knew it. And those visions that I've had . . . their family and mine are linked. I've seen enough, I know enough
. . . .

We share a legacy. We were to become the new dynasty, but our parents betrayed us . . . then Isabeau betrayed Jean
. . .

. . . and now she walks, until she kills him again
. . . .

But why? For what reason?

Kialish and Eddie remained silent in the backseat of Kari's VW Beetle, respecting the artificial bubble that was created by lovers who quarrel in public. They had left Kialish's car at Kari's apartment.

When they arrived there, they quietly said good night and left. Kari was still yelling at Jer.

And the only reason he let her do it was so that he wouldn't have to interact with her. His mind was on Holly Cathers.

My mind, and my spirit, and my body
. . .

Holly lay in bed, drifting on painkillers, remembering each touch, each kiss with Jer.

My mind, and my spirit, and my body
. . .

What happened? Why did he come to me, do all those things to me?

Bast touched her forehead, then her cheek, and then she settled beside Holly's face and stared long and hard at her mistress. Holly stared back, and then she fell . . .

. . . into the arms of Jean of the Deveraux, who was carrying her to their marriage bed, murmuring, “Je t'aime, je t'adore, Isabeau. You witch, you have bewitched me.”

He laid her down ever so gently and murmured to her,
“Let me get a boy on you. Let me unite the House.”

She opened her arms to him, her fierce, dangerous, damned husband, heir to all that was Deveraux
.

I am lost
, she thought with glorious abandon.
I am his
. . . .

Holly jerked awake. Bast licked her paw with sedate tranquility, then flopped onto her side and stared at Holly.

“I am his,” she said aloud. She felt as if she were floating above the bed, rushing headlong down a stream.

“I am his.”

Then she looked down at the bandage covering her burn. When she tried to exactly replay what had happened, she couldn't.

Was it . . . was it something supernatural?

Bast stared at her.

Was it . . . could it have been . . . magic?

The cat began to purr.

The next day dawned drizzly and wet. The wild night of Halloween was over. Decorations and pumpkins sagged in the rain of All Hallows' Day. Back in San Francisco, Holly knew a lot of people would be celebrating the Day of the Dead. It would seem that
such was not the case in Seattle, at least not among the people in Upper Queen Anne.

There was no word from Jer, no sign of him, to follow up from what had happened the night before. Holly was devastated.

After school, Aunt Marie-Claire and Holly had to go to an attorney's office to sign guardianship papers. Both were somber. It was a closure.

Marie-Claire had dressed carefully for the occasion in a dark suit and heels, and her trademark heavy makeup and jewelry. She looked like a TV evangelist's wife.

Holly didn't want to go. She didn't want a guardian. She wanted her parents to be alive again.

While her aunt made a few calls, she went looking for Amanda, who was in her room reading a book. She looked pale, and very tired.

Holly came in, her arm aching, and Amanda put down the book and watched Holly intently.

“So,” she said nervously. “You're going to the lawyers to become an Anderson.”

“No. I'll still be a Cathers.”

“I think . . . I think I'm a Cathers too,” Amanda said faintly.

Without another word, Holly unwrapped the
bandage on her hand and held it out to show her cousin.

Amanda pressed her burn mark against Holly's.

They looked at each other.

“I have to tell you some things,” Holly said in a rush. “I've had these dreams, and these . . . these weird things have happened. And my father . . . I think my father stayed away from Seattle for a reason.”

“We all have reasons,” Amanda said slowly, but it was clear she wanted to hear whatever Holly had to say.

Quickly, before she had to go, Holly had told Amanda all about the sleepwalking and the visions . . . and about Jer.

And about Nicole and her mother, in the living room.

“It sounds so crazy, when we talk about it like this,” Holly concluded.

Amanda slowly nodded. “Crazy.”

Her aunt called, “Holly?”

“Let's talk when you get back,” Amanda said.

Holly nodded.

She went downstairs. She was wearing her black pants and a black wool sweater of Amanda's. With November the weather had changed overnight from vaguely cold, like San Francisco, to truly cold.

She walked toward the front door and put her
hand on the doorknob of the ice-cream parlor foyer.

A chill skittered up her spine.
Say no
, a little voice told her.
Don't go outside
.

Her aunt joined her, smiling at Holly as she waited for Holly to open the door.

Don't
.

Not knowing what else to do, Holly opened the door and went out onto the porch.

They began to walk down the stairs together.

She thought about people who had premonitions about getting on airplanes that crashed; or staying away from buildings that started on fire; or refusing to answer a door when a serial rapist lurked on the other side. Then she roused herself; this was her aunt—what was she going to do: tell her she suddenly had a funny feeling about accepting her as her guardian?

“Nicole probably had a rehearsal,” her aunt said. “She's going to make a wonderful tragic heroine.” Her eyes sparkled. “I was in so many plays when I was in high school.”

“It must have been fun,” Holly said weakly.

“It was. I'm not going to let Nicole make the same mistake I did. I didn't really believe I had any talent, and it seemed kind of pointless. . . .”

The Mercedes was in the driveway. Her aunt clicked the security remote and let her in, trilling on
and on about the fabulous theater. She got in too, and began to buckle her seat belt.

“ . . . so many opportunities these days, with cable movies and so much regional theater . . . ,” Marie-Claire was saying as she started up the car. . . .

GET OUT!
screamed every nerve ending in Holly's body.

Without her effort, the door on her side opened. Someone yanked her out, and she fell hard onto the driveway.

“Aunt Marie-Claire!” she shouted as an invisible hand yanked Holly, dragging her along. Her palms and knees stung.

“Holly?” her aunt cried, leaning across the passenger side to stare in amazement at her niece.

And then, with Aunt Marie-Claire still in the car, the car burst into flames.

Observed and released to her uncle in the waiting room, Holly joined the anxious crowd waiting to hear about Aunt Marie-Claire. Eli Deveraux was with Nicole, who turned to him at one point and whispered, “Is my eye makeup smeared?”

Holly was losing it, reliving the deaths of her parents and Tina. The hospital volunteer kept telling her over and over that her aunt was all right except for a
few burns, and that it was a lucky thing Eli and Nicole had driven up at just that moment. It was due to his heroic rescue efforts that she and Aunt Marie-Claire had been saved.

He stood there preening, accepting Nicole's fervent thanks and a strong, grateful handshake from Uncle Richard.

Then Michael Deveraux showed, all preoccupied successful architect with his expensive loafers and his cell phone. Holly saw the expression of pain cross her uncle's face at the sight of him. Michael turned away as the man acknowledged him, then said to his older son, “Eli, thanks for calling.” Uncle Richard bobbed his head once. He remained silent, but his jaw was set hard and a muscle jumped in his cheek.

He knows about Aunt Marie-Claire and Michael
. Her heart broke for him, and she felt horribly complicit. She had seen them together in San Francisco. They had been together at the funeral. But what could she do, arrive at this man's house and say,
By the way . . . ?

Michael's dark, deep-set eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips into an angry line, studying her as if he could read her thoughts. In a self-defensive gesture, she started to look away, then returned his expression with one of steely fearlessness.

I'm not afraid of you
, she lied.

His answer was a smile of utter contempt.

Then the E.R. doors hummed open and a woman in scrubs pushed Holly's aunt toward them. Hunched in her wheelchair, Aunt Marie-Claire looked old. Seeing her that way was a shock to Holly, and she felt oddly guilty for seeing her that way, knowing how important beauty and youth were to Marie-Claire. Her aunt's cheeks and arms were bandaged, and there were liver-colored bruises around her eyes.

Her aunt's first look was for Michael; her second, for her husband. And it was while she was looking at Uncle Richard that her facade fell, and she was a very frightened middle-aged woman whose last remnants of beauty may have been taken from her.

“I . . . I guess it's a good thing I didn't spring for that face-lift yet,” she murmured as her husband's arms came around her and held her close.

Eli moved to his father. They spoke in low voices. Then they both stared at Holly. Her cheeks burned, and this time, she turned away.

“You're beautiful, honey,” Uncle Richard told his wife.

“No,” she whispered. “No, Richard.”

“Let's go home,” Uncle Richard said hoarsely. “All of us.”

Nicole opened her mouth, then closed it. She
cocked her head at Eli and grimaced apologetically as if to say,
Sorry, but I'm one of ‘us
.'

Eli looked pissed, and Nicole moved her shoulders and held open her hands as if to calm him down.

Holly was stunned.
She was going to leave with him. Her mother nearly burned to death and she was going to flounce off with her slimy boyfriend
.

Outraged, she took Nicole's arm and said, “Yes,
all
of us.”

As the Cathers family trooped behind Marie-Claire in her wheelchair, Holly completely ignored the two Deveraux men. The vibes coming off them were unnerving. She wanted to ask them where Jer was, but she didn't say a word.

Nevertheless, their gazes followed her as she passed them. Her back stiffened. Her lip trembled and she bit it, hard. Lines were being drawn between them and her; she could feel it, although she didn't quite understand it. The Deveraux were taking a stand . . . against her.

This is a turning point
, she thought.
Everything that's been happening . . . it's coming to a head. How I know that, I have no idea
.

But I
do
know it
.