NINTH MOON
Nothing now can block our path
The world trembles at our wrath
Murder, kidnap, torture, and lies
Dark hearts beneath darker skies
Crying now within the night
Waiting for the moon’s great light
Maiden whispers low and still
Commanding us to go and kill
Holly: Seattle, November
Holly couldn’t kill Bast.
So she killed Hecate instead.
She put it from her mind as she did it—the way the beautiful cat stared up at her as she placed her in the bathtub . . .
. . . the way she struggled.
It was as if Holly wasn’t really there. She shut herself down completely, neither seeing, nor hearing—not feeling anything. From a hard, dark place in the center of her being, she took the life of Nicole’s cat and offered it to darker spirits than she had ever called upon before.
They answered; the act allowed them access, and their presence swept a cold wind through her bones and her heart. From head to toe she was chilled, frightened, and ashamed; she had done something she could never take back, on her knees beside the tub in the darkened bathroom, with one single black candle for company.
Outside the house, Bast and Freya threw back their heads and screamed in fury and despair; they would have wakened the dead, but they could not awaken Amanda and the others, because Holly had put them all into a deep, dreamless sleep. The cats flung themselves at the front door, and at the ground floor windows, livid with her, begging her to stop. Her face a cipher, her heart a stone, she gave to the water something precious, demanding—not asking—the Dark Ones to protect her coven and give her the strength to save Kialish and Silvana.
When it was over, she was different, and she knew she would never be the same again. Her gaze was steadier, her smile less sweet. Ambition and determination had supplanted her goodness; now she had purpose and passion, but she wasn’t certain that she was still lovable.
After Hecate was dead, Holly stumbled into her heavily warded bedroom and slept for thirteen hours.
Amanda told her later that she had tried every spell she knew of to awaken her, finally asking Kari and Tommy to go to Kari’s for some books she had there, and asking Dan to come and help her and Tante Cecile.
The shaman and the voudon had known instantly what she had done, but they didn’t tell Amanda. All they told her was to do nothing and let Holly rest.
Holly’s dreams were troubled, boiling over with flames and dark waters, monsters that swam out of the chambers of her heart and demons devouring her soul. She dreamed of her parents, waterlogged and dead; she dreamed of Barbara Davis-Chin, still in the hospital and near death. Everyone she loved was cut off from her by a barrier of shiny obsidian black; everyone she hated was pointing at her and laughing.
Then Hecate stared at her from beneath the dirt that Holly had heaped over her in the backyard, the cat whispering, You crossed the line with my death; you are doomed.
Over and over the words spilled across her body and crept through her mind: You sold your soul. . . .
When Holly awoke, Amanda was standing beside her bed in tears, and a woman with blue-black hair and almond-shaped eyes stood beside her. She was dressed all in black, from a velour turtleneck sweater to a pair of black wool pants. Her skin was very pale and she had on very subtle makeup. Her earrings were silver crescent moons.
Startled to find a stranger in her room, Holly raised herself on one elbow.
Amanda blurted, “Holly, how could you!”
The other woman put a hand on Amanda’s arm and said softly, “Amanda, would you get us some tea?”
Amanda frowned, then bobbed her head and dashed from the room.
The woman regarded Holly for a moment. Then she sighed, pulled up a chair, and sat down.
Without preamble, she said bluntly, “You crossed the line.”
Holly licked her lips. She was thirsty and still muzzy with sleep. She raked her curls out of her face and sat up against the headboard.
“Who are you?” she asked the woman.
“I’m from the Mother Coven,” she told her. “I’m Anne-Louise Montrachet.”
Holly looked down at her hands, which were trembling. “No one from the Mother Coven has ever contacted us before,” Holly said. “Whatever it is.”
“We are a very old and prominent confederation of covens,” she informed her. “We were founded in response to the Supreme Coven.” She regarded Holly sternly. “The Deveraux are very prominent within their ranks.”
Holly raised her eyes, hopeful that help had come at last. She said, “How do we join up?”
Anne-Louise shrugged. “Your family has always been a member coven since we were founded. We . . . we regret that we did not contact you sooner.” She blanched. “Our resources have been stretched.”
“We’ve been fighting for our lives,” Holly told her simply. “And we haven’t been entirely successful.”
Anne-Louise nodded. “Our condolences on your losses.” She crossed her arms and legs and added, “All of them, including the death of the familiar, Hecate.”
Holly reddened. Then she lifted her chin and said, “Two of my covenates have been kidnapped by Michael Deveraux. I would give anything to get them back.”
“We have standards. We have limits,” Anne-Louise admonished. “We do not sacrifice coven members, including familiars.”
Holly moved her hands. “I didn’t know—”
“We have always had problems with you Cahors,” Anne-Louise cut in. “You’re unpredictable. You’re ruthless.”
“Until a year ago, I didn’t even know I was a witch,” Holly protested.
“Witch blood runs in your veins,” Anne-Louise cut in, gesturing to her. “Most witches would have been unable to sacrifice a familiar. They would have felt the wrongness of it.” She made a fist and placed it over her heart.
“Well, it was wrong of you guys to leave us alone to face Michael Deveraux,” Holly said. “I have to go to the bathroom. And I’m dying of thirst.”
“Amanda won’t be back. Not until I unward your doorway,” the woman said. “And you will sit there and listen—”
Holly glared at her. The woman raised her chin. For a few seconds they had a standoff Then the woman sighed heavily.
“Very well. You aren’t my prisoner.”
Saying nothing, Holly slid off the bed and walked unsteadily to the door. Truth was, she was shocked that there was such a thing as a Mother Coven to whom she was supposed to answer. And shocked, too, that they had left her and the others to twist in the wind for so long without backup.
But do something they don’t like, and they’re here in a hot minute.
She went into the bathroom and did her thing, then padded back to her room. The woman was standing and gathering her things: a black shawl, an overnight bag, and a purse.
“You’re leaving?” Holly asked. “Aren’t you going to help us with Michael Deveraux?”
“Yes. I am,” Anne-Louise said in a clipped voice. “I’ve taken a room at a hotel, and I need to marshal my own powers. Alone,” she added pointedly. “I don’t want him to realize I’m here. I want him to assume you’re still on your own.”
Holly wasn’t sure what to think about that. She said, “But you’re helping, right?”
The woman hesitated. “As much as we can,” she replied.
Holly crossed her arms and looked hard at the other witch. “You’re afraid of him.”
“Any wise witch is.”
Holly could practically read her thoughts.
“You didn’t want to come here. You asked not to.”
The woman inclined her head. “That’s also true.” She cleared her throat. “I’m going to check in and perform my ritual. I’ll get in touch in about six hours.”
“We have about a day,” Holly pointed out. “He said I had until the full moon.” To save them?
The woman exhaled and slung her bag over her shoulder. She began to walk to Holly’s door. “I’ll be in touch.” She added, in a weak tone of voice, “It’s the best I can do.”
“Pardon me for saying it, but your best sucks,” Holly flung at her.
The woman turned her back to Holly and walked out of the room. She murmured something and made a gesture with her hand.
Amanda raced into the room, ignoring the witch. Holly realized Anne-Louise had cloaked herself with invisibility.
“I hate you, Holly!” she shouted. “I hate you for killing Hecate! How could you do that?”
Holly didn’t have time to be kind. “If it could have saved Eddie, would you have killed Hecate?”
Amanda’s mouth dropped. Holly pressed her advantage.
“Michael Deveraux is planning to kill Silvana and Kialish. He’ll come after us next. Don’t you think Hecate’s death is worth it?”
Speechless, Amanda simply stared at her. Holly felt sick to her soul, and mean, and unlovable.
But she also felt strong.
This bears watching, Michael Deveraux thought, as he spied on Holly with a scrying stone from deep within the chamber of spells in his house in Lower Queen Anne, a neighborhood of Seattle.
His imp capered about the room, chattering at the skulls placed on the altar, laughing with mad glee as he glanced into the scrying stone, then darting away, his attention seized by some other object in the room.
Michael had witnessed her sacrifice of the familiar, which he had found both startling and delightful. I didn’t realize she had it in her to do something like that. She’s far more blackhearted than I thought.
He had also heard and seen her side of the conversation with the witch from the Mother Coven; the witch’s side of the meeting had been hidden from him. But he knew what that meddler wanted; she was telling Holly to toe the party line: no deaths among the good guys. But waste all the bad guys you want.
When Holly had pretty much told her to go to hell, he had silently applauded.
I wonder if I’ve underestimated her, he thought. Maybe I can turn her to the darker side. In thrall to me . . . or to jer, if he regains his sanity. Her union with the Deveraux Coven would assure my rise to power in the Supreme Coven.
No sooner had he thought those words, than he smelled the stench that often presaged the arrival of Laurent, Duc de Deveraux, and his ancestor.
Sure enough, as Michael knelt in humble obeisance, the moldering corpse that was his ancestor stepped off Charon’s boat as it glided into being in the center of the room. Sulfur mixed with the gut-churning odor of decomposition, telling of the hellfires Laurent had left in order to make the voyage back among the living.
“Laurent, it’s been so long since you have made yourself known to me,” Michael said. “I have wonderful news. I have two captives, and it looks as though I’ll be luring Holly of the Cahors to her death.”
“You liar,” Laurent said in medieval French. He backhanded Michael, sending him sprawling to the floor. “You are thinking of sparing her. Cochon. Don’t think it. The entire House must be wiped away from this world and all worlds.”
His cheek throbbed as if he’d been branded. Laurent advanced on him, menace in every step.
“You want the Black Fire again, don’t you? You want to rule the Supreme Coven. Then you had better kill the witch or you will never be able to conjure it again.”
Michael took that in. His heart pounding, he tried to summon his dignity—and his courage—as he got to his feet.
“Then I’ll kill her,” he said calmly.
Anne-Louise had been a practicing witch from the time she learned to speak. She had grown up in the Mother Coven, a ward of it. Her parents had been killed shortly after she was born, so the coven had been both Mother and Father to her.
In her hotel room she meditated, gathering her strength. The coven had sent her because wards were her magical specialty. Diplomacy was her mundane one. Although, one would not have guessed that, given her confrontation with Holly. She shuddered. Being near the younger witch had been an unpleasant experience. Drowning the familiar had tainted her. The evil coming off of her was terrible to feel.
Two tears slid slowly down her cheek. The first was for the familiar, Hecate. The second was for the witch Nicole, whose cat Hecate had been. Anne-Louise prayed to the Goddess that their fates would not be the same.
She took several cleansing breaths trying to regain her focus. She was tired from the long flight and the encounter with Holly. Additionally the ward she had set at the top of the stairs when she left the house had just about drained her. The deep breaths helped refocus her attention, and she resumed her meditations putting the Cahors witch from her mind. Cahors were always such trouble.
“Kill her,” Luc Deveraux whispered as he watched the proceedings. He had been tracking Cassandra Cahors ever since he had arranged for her mother, Barbara, to be burned at the stake. Now finally Cassandra would die as well and by another fine witch-hunter’s tradition.
Dunking.
Onlookers gathered at the water’s edge while the witch-finders in charge of her case spread across London Bridge to watch her drown, and drown she would. The commonly held belief was that witches floated. So, a woman accused of witchcraft was often thrown into a small body of water to see if she floated. The only way to prove that one was innocent was to drown and die. Much good innocence did for one.
Of course the common superstitions were all wrong. Witches didn’t float. Cassandra Cahors would drown and everyone would believe she had been innocent of witchcraft. Nothing could be further from the truth.
He smiled, savoring the irony.
Tied to the ducking stool, she struggled beneath the water, then was pulled up in case she wished to make a confession. She looked like a drowned cat, all huge eyes, her hair beneath her mob cap plastered to her head. She was wearing down; her breath was very labored, and he was overjoyed.
Cassandra was dying, and as she looked out at the crowd, all the fires of hell burned in her eyes.
“I curse you, all of you!” she shouted. “You shall all drown, every one of you! As I die, so shall you.”
Luc waved his hand and whispered a few incantations. He changed the spell, twisting it back toward Cassandra. At last he smiled triumphantly. “No, Cassandra. But all who love your descendants shall. I curse your house for all time.
“The loved ones of Cahors shall die by drowning.”
Michael and Laurent: Seattle, November
Laurent, the mighty duke of the House of Deveraux, watched his descendant Michael attempting to hide his fear as he got to his feet, and his entire being flooded with rage. To see my house reduced to this: a modern-day play-boy who tries to play the game as the Cahors did. . . .
Laurent possessed a ferocity and passion that, quite literally, had taken him beyond the grave. Catherine of the Cahors, his rival in life, had not managed to make that transition, and she spun through the universe as ashes.
Jean was dead because of them. True dead.
I will not have this. I have found the living Cahors witch, and I will see her dead.
Thus far, he had only been able to appear to Michael and to touch only him. But as he stood livid and furious, he felt strength rushing through his being.
Energy crackled around and through him; his head snapped back, and it was as if lightning had jolted through him.
Michael’s eyes widened, and the duke realized that something was happening to himself; he glanced down at his hands and watched the gray, rotten flesh drop from his bones and soft new skin appear. He touched his face; the same thing was happening there.
In large clumps, his old body fell away.
He was becoming a man again—vigorous, filled with life.
At last. At last!
“Whoa,” Michael whispered, impressed. Michael’s imp chittered and pointed, leaping about the room.
“Did I not tell you that I would come back to this plane a full man?” Laurent chided Michael, although his heart was overflowing with shock. He had not realized it would ever really happen.
He took a step forward, and another. His ancient clothing fell away, leaving him naked.
He said to his many-times-great-grandson, “Fetch me clothing.”
Michael raced off to do as he was told, his imp bounding after him.
Then Laurent closed his eyes and raised his arm; he whispered, “Fantasme.”
The great falcon took shape and weight as he landed on the arm of his lord and master. His bells tinkled; he screeched softly.
Laurent opened his eyes and looked fondly at the bird.
“Ma coeur,” he said. “My heart. Come with me, my beauty, and we’ll hunt as we once did.”
The bird cawed in reply.
Michael returned with clothing for him—a black sweater, black trousers, boots—and Laurent savored the sensation of fresh, new attire on his new body. He realized he was hungry. But that hunger would have to wait.
He had a witch to kill.
He strode past Michael, who called, “Where are you going?”
“To do your work,” he flung over his shoulder, not even breaking stride.
His strong thighs propelled him up the stairs. He hesitated, unsure of his bearings, when the falcon lifted from his arm and fluttered down a corridor. Within a minute Fantasme had shown Laurent the way to the front entrance of the Deveraux home.
He moved his wrist and the door opened. As he crossed the threshold, he was tempted to turn the entire house into a raging inferno, be done with Michael Deveraux once and for all. But he reminded himself that, after all, Michael was a strong warlock who knew his family’s proud history and longed to restore the family honor.
He’s not all bad, Laurent thought.
He’s just not me.
The moon was nigh full as its beams glowed over him. Michael was right to set the meeting with Holly Cathers on the full moon, which was on the morrow. His power would be greater for killing her then.
But Laurent was not going to wait that long.
He snapped his fingers and shouted, ”Magnifique!”
Clouds roiled and scudded over the yellow moon, and stars blinked and shuddered. An arc of flame shot across the sky, and upon it, the mighty hooves of Laurent’s warhorse, Magnifique, took form. They were followed by his legs and then his body. Flames shot from his nostrils, his mane, and his tail, and he cantered down from the sky to the ground, stomped his left foot, and dipped his head to Laurent.
“By the Horned One, I have missed you,” Laurent said fervently. Then he climbed on the back of the horse, sans saddle. Fantasme rode on his shoulder, and the trio galloped down the streets of Michael’s town, Seattle.
The skies cracked open and rain poured down. Steam rose off Magnifique’s heavily muscled body, and Laurent threw back his head and laughed. Then he put his heels to the horse and they picked up speed, until the warhorse’s hooves made the street sizzle and melt.
Fantasme showed the way; the dark lord of the Deveraux rode for hours; and then . . .
. . . he stood before the house where the witch resided.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he galloped up the walkway toward the porch.
He fully expected there to be wards, and he conjured as he rode, breaking each one as he did so. He was surprised when he had disabled them all, expecting more fight in the young woman, and with a wave of his hand, flung open the door. Magnifique trotted inside.
He smelled smoke and remembered the night Michael had attempted to conjure the Black Fire through the sacrifice of Marie-Claire, the lady of this house. How livid Laurent had been that night! Michael had disobeyed him, putting that lady in thrall to himself—that minor Cahors witch, that adversary—after Laurent had expressly forbidden it.
He had materialized here and cuffed Michael, and hated him for his duplicity.
But would I respect a man who did not push, take chances? When has obedience mattered to the Deveraux? I would rather he take the initiative and accomplish great things than allow fear of me to limit him.
He raced through the living room. The hot winds of anger rose with him; Magnifique’s body sizzled and burned from the speed at which he ran. Laurent reveled in all the sensations, and he laughed in anticipation of what he was going to do to that little witch, either carry her off and kill her slowly, or allow Magnifique to trample her as she ran.
He started up the stairs and—
—was blocked.
A powerful ward shimmered between him and the top of the stairway. Roses shimmered in it, and lilies, suspended as if in crystal.
He lips curled back in utter hatred. He changed spells and created from his hands an enormous fireball, which he lobbed at the ward.
Nothing he did had any effect.
The Mother Coven has been here. This is one of their wards.
He urged Magnifique on; the horse reared, as frustrated as his master. His large hooves slammed at the barrier, the magical energy shocking them both. Magnifique reared again and again, coming down hard on the ward. It would not give. Fantasme struck at it with claws and beak, and still it remained intact and in place.
And then, standing inside the barrier, a woman’s shape shimmered and blurred. She looked at him with eyes he knew, with a sneer he knew too well. . . .
She lives on. I had not known that.
That threw him . . . but he found his composure as he regarded the ghostly image of his dead daughter-in-law.
“Isabeau,” he proclaimed, “get thee hence. I abjure you!”
Her image wobbled but did not fade. She was staring at him with the same degree of hatred he felt for her. Tearing her apart with his teeth would be too good for her.
“You murdered my heir,” he said to her. “It’s only just that I take the life of the Cahors descendant.”
She made no reply, but a strange smile ghosted across her lips, then was gone.
She raised a hand and pointed toward the front door, contemptuously dismissing him.
Laurent clapped his hands three times . . .
. . . and he, Magnifique, and Fantasme were magically transported back to Michael’s chamber of spells.
Michael looked startled, but the two young people who lay tied up on the floor were terrified. The girl began to scream; the young man closed his eyes and began to chant. Laurent felt his attempt to send him back into the ether as a mild tickle across his sternum.
He dismounted and slapped the horse on the hindquarters. Fantasme perched on his shoulder, then glided over the two prone figures, screeching in anticipation. The bird had been taught to love tidbits of human flesh.
“You couldn’t get to her,” Michael guessed.
Laurent nearly hit him again for embarrassing him in front of mere captives, but he put his hands on his hips. He said, “The Mother Coven is here. Did you know that?”
Michael exhaled with contempt. “Who cares? A bunch of withered old nuns who are ineffectual at best.”
“Tomorrow, the witch dies,” Laurent ordered him, trying another tack. He smiled evilly at the two on the floor. “So you might as well kill them now.”
“She’s a voudon; he’s a shaman. I’ll get more power tomorrow if I kill them on the full moon.”
“Very well,” Laurent said, conceding the point. Then he touched his stomach and said, “I want to eat.”
Michael nodded. “I’ll take you upstairs and make you a steak.”
They went upstairs.
Jer: Avalon, November
It was a freezing cold day, and Jer was starving. Healing took a lot of energy. James had jumpstarted the process, but it was far from over. He was still horribly scarred.
Bundled in a pea coat, a blanket over his knees, he sat on a stone bench and looked out to sea. He wondered what Holly was doing; if she dreamed of him. He would be surprised if she didn’t. He knew that in his dreams, he called out to her.
I have to try harder not to do that. I will he the death of her.
There was a soft pad of footsteps. Jer looked up to see one of the servants cautiously approaching with a silver tray. Silver covered dishes gleamed on its surface.
Jer signaled for her to come closer. She was afraid of him, whether because he was a powerful warlock or because he was so horrible-looking, he had no idea.
He said to her, “What do you want to know today?”
She was shy; she said, “How to find money”
“All right.”
She handed him the tray. They had a deal going. She told him any news she heard, and in return, he taught her simple spells.
“What do you have for me?” he asked her.
“James is back,” she said. “He’s got a girl with him. A witch.”
That caught his attention. His hair stood on end; his cheeks grew hot as he wondered, Have they taken Holly?
“What’s her name?” he demanded.
She cocked her head. “I want to learn how to find money and how to make someone I hate lose her glasses.”
On any other day, he might have laughed. But today he said, ”What is her name?” He lifted a finger and pointed it at her, an ominous threat.
She backed up. “Nicole.”
Holly’s cousin. She used to date my brother.
This could not be good.
He nodded and said, “Okay. I’ll teach you. But first . . .” He took the cover off one of the dishes and smiled appreciatively. Fish and chips. He loved them.
He picked up a fry and began to pop it in his mouth when a terrible smell hit his nose. He froze, staring down at the fry.
Green energy shimmered around it, and its manifest aspect was that of a shriveled piece of rotting garbage.
Poison, he realized. From Eli . . . or James?
The girl watched him; she was curious, but there was no sign about her that she knew she had brought him food designed to harm him, if not kill him.
He put it back down. He looked at her and said, “Get me something else. Something you’ve had some of.”
Her eyes widened at the implication.
Without another word, she took the tray and hurried away, as if she was afraid he would blame her.
He stared out to sea.
Nicole’s with James. Are they upping the stakes, trying to get Holly to come here, to Avalon?
“Don’t do it,” he said aloud. “Holly, don’t.”