Witch & Curse (33 page)

It wasn't until one of Jean's bodyguards spotted them, and pulled him from the blaze
. . .

. . .
that Isabeau ignited in a horrible, agonizing moment; she writhed as she died, screaming his name
.

Jean! Jean
!

“
Die, Cahors witch!” Jean's bodyguard had shrieked
.

And in that moment, her family symbol was branded into
her palm, so that all who saw her spirit would know she was of the traitor Coven. . . .

Jer could feel the flames licking at them, hungry, passionate, angry. But the flames without were nothing to the flames within. He felt such power welling up inside him, surrounding him, binding him to her until their love, their magic together kept them safe. They could stay in the flames forever and so long as they were together they would come to no harm.

Jer threw back his head and shouted in French.

Without warning, the roof overhead began to crack. Huge pieces fell like bombs, the structure disintegrating. The smoke of the Black Fire sailed up, up, threatening to blot out the very sky, the Black Fire smoke taking the shape of a skull, laughing down at the tableau like a hideous, appreciative audience.

Suddenly Holly was jerked backward, her hands pulled from his. Her eyes widened in horror.

“No!” she shouted. “Let me go! He'll die if you don't let me go!”

And Jer stepped forward to follow, but searing pain rooted him to the spot. His flesh was on fire. Every nerve in his body screamed with the unimaginable agony. His hands, his face . . . everything was going up like dry paper. He could feel his skin melting
from his body, and his legs slowly collapsed.

She abandoned me to the flames, and now I'll die. Isabeau will have her revenge
.

This was the end, then.

Come death and welcome. Holly wills it so
. . . .

Screaming, Holly tried to break free of Amanda's and Nicole's hands, but she could not.

“He's bewitched you! You'll die in there with him!” Amanda shouted.

“No! It's the way to save him!” she cried, fighting, struggling . . . forgetting to use her magic.

Horrified, she watched as Jer's skin turned black and his body collapsed. The smell of burnt flesh permeated her nostrils until it was the only smell she could ever remember.

And then she remembered her magic.

In a sudden burst of inspiration, she screamed at her cousins, “It always rains here! It always friggin' rains here!”

Yes!” Amanda yelled. “Of course.”

Hot tears streamed down her face as they pressed their palms together. “Help me, ancestress,” Holly whispered.

The glowing blue form of Isabeau shimmered into being, covering Holly with her spirit, yet not
allowing a total merge, as she had before.

If he dies, I will rest
, Isabeau reminded her.

“You won't. You'll hate yourself,” Holly insisted. “And I will hate you!”

How long it took Isabeau to decide, Holly had no idea. But then she guided Holly's mouth, and words tumbled out. Her cousins held fast, though the lily brand on their three palms had started to smoke and burn through their flesh.

Elaborate French of another time and place rang through the coursing Black Fire, around the bonfire of it, the writhing figure in the middle. Hurry,
vite, vite
, Holly begged her ancestress.
The man we love is in there. Je vous en prie, ma mère, je vous en prie . . . oh, please, oh, please, save him
.

The fire began to die.

Seconds later the rest of the building began to collapse, and someone had their arms around her, dragging her away. She was screaming for Jer, shouting for . . .

“Jean!” she shrieked hysterically. “Jean!”

It was too late.

All that was left was ashes.

EPILOGUE

It was over.

Jer was dead. His father had evidently escaped, and his brother . . . who knew where Eli had gone, in the grasp of that enormous bird?

Now the members of Jer's circle, together with Holly's, had come to empty ashes into Eliott Bay.

They had no idea if they were his ashes; the entire theater had been destroyed. A town scandal had erupted because the sprinklers never went off, and innocent
heads would no doubt roll, but Holly could do nothing about that.

Holly wept. The gulls sobbed and wheeled, and the others—including the members of Jer's Rebel Coven—kept a respectful distance.

I am still bound to him
, she thought.
As Isabeau was to Jean. She was doomed to walk the earth until she killed him, and I'm doomed to grieve my whole life
. . . .

She broke down, completely losing it, until strong arms grabbed her shoulders.

It was Tante Cecile.

“Cry, and then carry on,” the woman said. “Magics are still at work. I was prevented from getting here in time to help by magic. And I can feel magic everywhere. Your Coven may have no time to rest, Holly.” She gestured to Jer's group. “You'll need to persuade them to join you. You're going to need them.”

Holly went into the older woman's arms and buried her head against her shoulders. “I'm not . . . I can't . . .”

“Yes, you can,” Tante Cecile said firmly. She nodded, and Amanda and Nicole joined them, putting their arms around her and Holly.

Slowly, Kialish walked toward the circle. Eddie, Kari, and Dan trailed after.

Kialish held out his hand and Holly, sobbing, took
it. He pulled her against his chest, where she buried her head. He began to cry, too. Eddie joined them, arms around them both. Dan joined them.

He said to Holly, “Those of the Black Arts rule by cruelty and fear. He was learning that there was another way. If he could have brought all that power to the light . . .”

It was no comfort. Not then. Nothing could comfort her. Her soul was ripped and bleeding, and she had no idea if such a wound could ever heal.

For a time, Kari held herself stiffly away from Holly. When Holly looked over at her, the woman gazed at her steadily and said, “You as much as killed him, you know. If he hadn't had you to worry about . . .”

“Leave her alone, Kari,” Kialish said harshly. “She's going through enough.”

“What about me?” Kari demanded.

She turned on her heel and stalked away.

London, Headquarters of the Supreme Coven

Sir William regarded Michael Deveraux with skepticism. “And so, you want me to save your son,” he drawled.

He was seated on the throne of skulls, his own son, James, standing beside him with his arms crossed over
his chest. James's face was a neutral blank, but he was speaking volumes to Michael with his eyes. After all, Michael was the secret ringleader of his bid to depose his father and seize the throne for himself.

“Yes. He knows the secret of the Black Fire.”

That was not entirely true. After the fire in the school theater, Michael had learned, to his horror, that he and Eli alone could not call up the fire. Not alone. It had been Jer's presence combined with theirs that had allowed it to materialize.

He needed both his sons alive. Eli, through his own quick thinking, had called up the spirit of the family falcon, Fantasme, and saved himself. He was waiting even now in their quarters, his face still burned but on the mend.

“And you will pledge your own allegiance, and that of both your sons, if I make . . . that . . . something that stays alive.”

Dispassionately, Michael regarded his younger boy, Jeraud. Lying on a hospital gurney, Jer was less a living human being and more a writhing mass of melted flesh. If he lived, he would be a monster.

Suitable punishment for turning against his own flesh and blood
, Michael thought derisively.

“Yes,” he said to the Coven Master.

“Very well. And you will swear a blood oath to
that.” He gestured for a black-robed acolyte to come forward. The young warlock carried a splendidly jeweled athame on a black pillow and presented it to Michael, who sliced open his wrist and dripped it on the burned flesh of his son.

He'll die eventually
, Michael thought, and though he meant Sir William, he realized it was also true of Jer.
But by then, I'll have what I want
.

Sir William chuckled and dipped his head forward, receiving the oath with great formality. Michael smiled to himself, pleased with his own cleverness.

“Very well, Michael, leader of the Deveraux Coven. You have sworn allegiance to me,” he said in a muffled voice.

Then his hands moved forward to throw back his hood, and Sir William raised his head.

Michael caught his breath and fell to his knees.

Before him sat not Sir William Moore, but the Horned God himself. The King of Hell, the Lord of the Flies, the Devil. . . .

“Your family is mine now,” the demon said, chuckling. “For
ever
.”

And from the piteous ruin of his aching body, Jer Deveraux wailed,
“No
.”

In her room in the Anderson home, Holly dreamed.

I am Isabeau, and I am Holly, and he
. . .

He is alive, with my parents, and we are on the river. Tina is laughing
.

See how the sun dances on her hair
.

See how the sun dances in Jer's eyes. The ghosts are at rest. At rest. At rest . . . oh, my God, Kari's right
.

I killed him
.

Tears slid down her cheeks. On cat's paws, Bast crept respectfully toward her and breathed on her cheek.

What do you want
? she blinked with her large cat eyes.

“Bring him back,” Holly wailed.

And then she opened her own eyes, fully awake.

Clenching her fists, she said to Bast, “I will bring him back. If I have to work at it my whole life. . . .”

The cat meowed, whether in agreement or in protest, Holly couldn't tell.

Holly sat up, weary to her bones, numb with grief . . .

. . . and ready to begin.

At her window, a gray hawk hovered. A lady hawk.

“Spirit of Pandion,” she whispered, “will you help me?”

The bird screeched once, cocked its head at her, and did not fly away.

In her room in the Anderson home, Holly dreamed.

Curse

To my daughter, Belle, who is magical.

—Nancy Holder

To my husband, Scott, and the magic of true love.

—Debbie Viguié

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my wonderful coauthor, Debbie, and her husband, Scott, for being friends I can count on. Thanks to our Simon & Schuster family, Lisa Clancy, Micol Ostow, and Lisa Gribbin. To my agent and his assistant, Howard Morhaim and Neeraja Viswanathan, my gratitude always.

—N. H.

Thanks to my coauthor and mentor, Nancy, for being such an inspiring writer and a dear friend. Thank you also to all the people without whom this would not be possible, most especially Termineditor Lisa. Thank you to all those who have offered me encouragement and shared the joy and pain of creativity: Chris Harrington, Marissa Smeyne, Teresa Snook, Amanda Goodsell, and Lorin Heller. Thank you also to George and Greta Viguié, the parents of my beloved husband. Without you he would not be the man he is.