BLOOD MOON
On kings and saints we gladly feed
And wash their flesh down with mead
We bathe in blood and whittle bone
And dream of all the fear we’ve sown
By the light of the blessed moon
We hunt again and very soon
We’ll catch within our snare
Our greatest enemy’s one heir
Canyon Rock Hospital, Arizona
Holly drifted along on a gentle sea halfway between waking and dreaming. Though her eyes were closed, she sensed the brightness of the sun through her eyelids, smiled at the pleasant warmth on her face. Soon her mother would remind her to put on sunscreen, and Holly would, to please her. Secretly, she liked tans and when she was at the stables, she never bothered. She told herself her cowboy hat was enough, but of course it wasn’t.
A shadow moved between her and the sun’s nourishing heat; she wrinkled her brow slightly but then relaxed as a large, familiar hand slipped around her own and gave her a squeeze. She tried to say, “Hi, Daddy,” but it was too much effort in her deliciously languid state. So she smiled again to indicate that he was welcome, and drifted along, her hand in his, loving her father, remembering all the years of looking up to him and adoring him. Her mom had always said Holly was a daddy’s girl, but she hadn’t minded. Elise Cathers’s own childhood had been a nightmare, and she had told Holly one of the most important gifts she could give her daughter was a good, healthy love and respect for her own father.
“Not being able to love him, not wanting him anywhere near you,” her mom had said, “that’s the worst thing for a young girl. I’m glad you love your dad so much.” That’s what she would tell Holly, and then she’d smile a bit wistfully. “It’s as that writer says—having a child is another chance to get it right.”
It amused Holly that even though her mom repeated those words over and over, Elise couldn’t remember the name of the writer who had written them, or where she’d read them. But Holly got the message, and she was immensely proud of her mom; whatever had happened to her as a little girl, it hadn’t held her back. She was a skilled, compassionate doctor and a fabulous mother. The only thing she didn’t seem to be very good at was being a wife.
Or is all the fighting Daddy’s fault?
There would be other times to puzzle over that; for now, she and her father savored the peace and quiet together. It was a gift, this moment. So many of the parents of Holly’s friends didn’t get that it was about just being together, not overscheduled days and nights saturated with “activities” and expensive presents to make up for absences and missed dance recitals. Tina’s mom got it, though. She’s a great mom, too.
Her father’s grip began to slacken, and she heard his voice inside her head: Time to wake up, punky.
Then the panic started, because she knew what the dream was. The word survivor echoed in her muzzy brain and she knew she was stalling; when she woke up, they were going to tell her about death. Someone had died... no, wait, I don’t know that. We could all be survivors. Of course we all survived. Because this is my life and in my life, things like dying don’t happen. . . .
Her father’s voice whispered more insistently, Wake up, and then she realized that the words were sounds outside her head. That meant he was alive, really there beside her, really trying to rouse her from her dreams.
Her heart beat a little faster and she tried hard to pull her eyelids open. She was incredibly tired. Her head swam as if she were falling; then her left leg jerked, the way body parts sometimes did when one was falling asleep or waking up. From the heat on her face, she assumed she would be staring into the sun, so she tried to turn her head, but she simply couldn’t manage it.
“Holly. Wake up.”
And then she did, because that was definitely Dad’s voice; she not only turned her head but opened her eyes, a smile on her face and—
A scream ripped out of her, tearing up and out from her stomach to the top of her head. She screamed again, and again; because her father was leaning over her, only she had no idea how she knew it was her father, because the face of the figure had been smashed flat, and the flesh was swollen and black. There were no eyes, just compressed eyelids; the nose had been crushed by a head-on collision, the cartilage and bone smeared across the cheekbones. The chin had been cracked in two, and the hinges of the jaw dangled like the wings of a roasted chicken.
A voice echoed from the destroyed mouth, but she was screaming so loudly, she couldn’t hear what it was saying. She couldn’t hear if it was her father. She shot away from it, arms and legs flailing, scrabbling backward in terror, shrieking. The face moved with her, then glanced in another direction.
Something jabbed into her arm with a painful prick, and the ruined face melted in slow motion. As her shrieks slid into moans and then into whimpers, she was forced to watch the bloated, purplish skin slide down from her father’s forehead and cheeks, rivuleting down the hollows of his cheeks, taking the rapids of his chin. Then the bones stretched like pliant candle wax, elongating hideously; and then, for one instant, an oval of black stared at her. The shadow mask stared at her, and then it vanished, all at once.
In its place emerged the face of a woman, very lovely and glamorously made up, almost middle-aged, with Dad’s dark, flashing eyes and Dad’s generous mouth and Dad’s dark, wild hair. Holly blinked, too woozy to speak, and the woman raised a hand toward her.
“I’m your aunt,” the face said with brilliant red lips, and then Holly went back to sleep.
On a beautiful, gentle sea, she held hands with her father, and—
And Holly Cathers’s life was about death after all.
She was the only survivor of the rafting trip. Mom, Dad, Tina, and even their guide, Ryan—all were dead.
She was in a hospital near the Grand Canyon, where she had been treated for exposure, and they had sedated her after her freak-out. But I saw him. I saw my father, all . . . all injured. The daughter of an E.R. physician, Holly was not squeamish. But that was Daddy. My daddy. I want my daddy . . .
Holly began to wail. She shut her eyes and keened like a dying animal, rocking herself. Acid filled her mouth; her stomach burned; she leaned forward and heaved, clutching a wafer-thin hospital blanket as if to protect her hospital gown. Heavy, deep, rolling sobs exploded out of her, breaking her down. All she could do was weep.
Someone spoke with great authority, announcing, “That’s okay, Holly. You go right ahead, honey. Get it out.”
She didn’t know how long she cried until the same someone said to another person in the room, “Jesus. Let’s give her something.”
There was another jab, and as she began to descend into drugged sleep, she heard a flapping like the wings of a hunting bird. Swooping, diving, careening down the tunnel of blackness with her . . .
. . . and then she realized it was her own heart beating hummingbird fast, then slowing . . . slowing . . .
. . . and a gauntleted hand made a fist, and the bird perched upon it.
Holly woke up again, worn out and sick and numb. The woman who said she was her aunt tried to stop crying. Her makeup was smeared all over her face. She wiped her nose with a tissue from the box on the nightstand and said, “. . . your guardian, in your father’s will.”
Holly couldn’t remember her name. Daddy never even told me he had a sister.
“Um, and you’ll like the school.” The woman swallowed hard. Her eyes darted left and right, as if she were looking for somewhere else to be. She had on a lot of jewelry, and her earrings caught the light as she moved. “My girls like the school.”
Holly squinted her swollen eyes, trying to follow. “School?”
“You’re going to be a senior, right?” the woman asked.
Years ago, when Janna Perry’s brother had died, Janna had been like the star of a movie. Everyone had circled around eleven-year-old Janna at school, treated her carefully, whispered in furtive circles about the poor girl, the poor thing, the one left behind. Janna had been pretty much of a creep, and now she was a saint. She even acted like a saint. She was good. She was kind. She was very, very sad.
Sad kids get their way.
Kids who had been mean to her brought her little presents. Kids she had been mean to took her home to their houses for dinner and sleepovers. She got excused from tons of homework assignments and even though she missed a lot of school, she made the honor roll for the first time in her life. Holly, only nine at the time, had been a little jealous. All the drama, all the specialness, Janna like some mythic tragic heroine dragging around with dark circles under her eyes and going to the nurse whenever she felt like it. Janna had entered the annals of coolness, and for the rest of her life, she would have an unbeatable card to play whenever she wanted attention.
“So, um, we can pack your things and . . .” Her aunt looked momentarily stunned. “Where do you live?”
Holly stared back at her. “What?”
Before her aunt could answer, there was a rap on her hospital room door. Before Holly could say “come in,” it opened.
Barbara Davis-Chin, in her corduroy overalls and Birkenstocks, hippie Barbara with no makeup and her black hair in a bun, stood framed in the doorway for an instant. Then she saw Holly and rushed to her side. Holly’s aunt moved awkwardly out of her way and Barbara’s arms enfolded Holly, pressing her cheek against Holly’s own. She smelled of sweat and perfume, and tears slid down Holly’s cheeks.
“Holly, baby,” she murmured. “Oh, Holly. Oh.” She rocked Holly as Holly grabbed on to her, clinging as hard as she could, shaking and crying.
“Tina,” Holly murmured back, holding on hard, grateful to her core that Barbara was here. She was solid and real and maybe it had all been a mistake, and now Barbara would tell her that and everything would be the way it was supposed to be.
I don’t care if Mom and Dad fight for the rest of their lives, she thought fiercely.
“It’s a mistake, right?” she blurted. “It’s not them.”
“I saw them, sweetheart,” Barbara said firmly, caressing Holly’s cheek. “I identified them.”
Holly was amazed at the fresh wash of grief and despair that overtook her. She had had no idea that people could hurt this badly. She thought again of Janna and was deeply ashamed of herself.
Maybe God is paying me back for being such a bitch, she thought.
After Holly quieted, Barbara turned to the stranger and said, “I’m Barbara Davis-Chin. Holly’s best friend’s mother.” She was amazingly composed.
“I’m Holly’s aunt, Marie-Claire,” the other woman said. Her smile was watery weak and sad. “I guess Danny never mentioned me. Apparently he had listed me as next of kin.”
Barbara made a moue of apology, then turned her attention to Holly. “Sweetie,” she said, “your mom asked me to look after you if anything ever happened to her. Did you know that?”
Holly wasn’t surprised, but still she said, “No.”
Barbara nodded. She reached forward and trailed her fingertips over Holly’s corkscrew curls. “I’ve watched you grow up,” she said softly.
Holly glanced at her newly discovered aunt. “My dad wanted me to live with her.”
“Yes, about that . . . ,” Barbara began.
The woman stepped forward and cut in, “Holly, if you have someone you want to stay with, that’s all right.” She smiled at them both. “I certainly don’t want Holly to come to Seattle against her will.”
For a moment, Holly was stung. It was obvious her aunt didn’t want her. Then her more adult self kicked in; who would want a third high school student in the house? Marie-Claire’s family had their own lives, and she was a total stranger. Besides, she wanted to stay in San Francisco for her senior year.
“Of course, if you want to come to Seattle,” Aunt Marie-Claire added, “you’re more than welcome.” She laid a reassuring hand on Holly’s forearm. “I’d love to get to know Danny’s daughter.” Her eyes softened. “I missed him, all those years.”
“We can talk about all this later,” Barbara suggested. “Holly needs to think things over.”
“No,” Holly said. She colored at the panicked tone in her voice. “I’d like to stay with you, Barbara. If it’s really okay.”
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s more than okay.” Barbara put her arms around her. “It’s what I’d like, too. That house is going to be awfully empty without . . . without Tina.”
“Okay, then.” Marie-Claire pressed her hands together. She said to Barbara, “I’d like to go back to . . . home with you both and help with the . . . arrangements.”
The funerals, Holly translated, feeling a little sick again. Oh, my God, I’m an orphan. My parents are dead. I have no brothers or sisters.
“Holly?” Marie-Claire said.
Both women looked at her. Holly shook her head. “I’m tired.” She touched her forehead and sighed. “Just really tired.”
“She needs her rest,” a nurse announced as she bustled in. “She’s had enough visiting for now.”
Barbara moved away from Holly’s bed. She said to Holly’s aunt, “Let’s get some coffee, all right?”
In unison, they smiled at Holly, then picked up their purses and walked out of the room. Barbara was very much the counterculture San Franciscan, Marie-Claire the upscale fashion trender.
She must be rich, Holly thought. Then for the first time, she realized, I’m rich, now, too.
The nurse said, “You’re all wound up. I’m going to ask the doctor to prescribe something for you to sleep.”
“No,” Holly whispered, thinking of her terrible dream. But as soon as she said it, her eyes were closed, and she was drifting, back to the river and her father and life as it never would be again.
The University of Washington at Seattle
The sweat lodge was filled with sweat and nearly naked bodies. Jer was very quiet, searching for the serenity that had eluded him last night. It had been Lammas, one of the most important Rites of the warlock year, and his father had never showed.
He and Eli had celebrated together, a desultory affair, since neither brother could stand the other. As the younger brother, Jer was obliged to serve as backup during the Rites, fuming as Eli made fun of the entire ritual and finally concluded by intoning in a mockstern voice, “Go in peace. The Black Mass is ended. Mwahahah.”
“So, are you tired from whatever you did or what?” Kari asked. Jer didn’t open his eyes. It was bad manners to talk in the lodge, and she knew it. She had been upset last night when he had left because he hadn’t invited her.
Does she think I feel guilty, so I’ll come across with some information for her? Because I don’t feel a shred of guilt.
“C’mon, baby. It’s for my paper on harvest folklore,” Kari persisted, arching her back and moving her neck, wafting the steam and smoke toward her chest with her hands. It was said to cleanse one of impurities, within and without. Jer resented her trying to manipulate him by drawing his attention to her body, and he was humiliated that it was working. Guys were entirely too much governed by their desires, and girls like Kari knew it.
“Hey,” Kialish protested. “No talking.” Over time, Kari seemed to have forgotten that she was a guest here; the lodge belonged to Kialish, Eddie, and Jer, if it could be said to belong to anybody besides the University of Washington.
“Sorry,” she said, not at all sorry. She touched her forehead. “I’m just too hot in here today. I can’t keep my focus.”
“Nobody can, if you keep talking,” Kialish said firmly.
“Okay. Sor-ry. Look, I’m going to split.” She gazed at Jer expectantly, wanting him to go with her.
Jer gave his head a quick shake, then moved his shoulders to show her that even though he wasn’t in the mood now, that didn’t mean they couldn’t hook up later. That mollified her.
I have issues with women, he thought. His father insisted that his mother had been terribly insecure and passive, a very weak person. It had occurred to Jer more than once that leaving someone takes a decisive act of will, which a passive, very weak person would be unable to accomplish. Likewise, he tried to leave thoughts about his mother in the past, where they belonged, but he found that impossible. Since he didn’t trust his dad’s version of her, and that was all he had at present, he was better off not forming an image of her at all.
Someday I’ll have the magic for it, though. And I’ll cast a finding spell and locate my mom, see if she’s okay. And I’ll ask her if she’s sorry she left me with him and Eli. . . .
Kari rolled onto her feet and crouched beneath the low, rounded ceiling of the lodge. She gave Jer’s knee a caress and said softly, “See you later, babe.” Then she opened up the flap and crawled out, careful to refasten the Velcro strips on the outside.
Now that she was gone, Jer refocused his attention on the burning logs. He stared at them, his lids half-closed, lulling his emotions to a passive place; letting his arms and legs slacken, his breathing to slow. He imagined the heat and smoke entering all the cavities of his body and warming them, the herbs in the smoke mingling with his being so that part of him was the mixture created by this place and this moment. Like sips of water, he took in that image, and he began to let go of his other thoughts—about the missed Lammas ritual, his brother and father, school assignments, Kari, what his life would become after college . . . every concern seemed a distant, odd object that he firmly discarded, clearing his mind of clutter and debris.
The fire appeared to grow larger, the rocks more like small boulders; the flames those of a bonfire; the logs were felled trees. As he stared, the smoke whirled and eddied into shapes alien to his culture, more Eddie’s and Kialish’s totems and icons than his—salmon and orcas and strangely clawed bears. Ravens flew everywhere, and other birds joined them, wheeling in a sky boiling with fire and smoke. Falcons skyrocketed toward the moon, joined by hawks. The ravens wheeled around the other birds as falcon and hawk squared off, each rushing toward the other, screaming through clacking beaks, wings flapping. Whum, whum, whum; the smoky sky vibrated with their great wings’ beats.
Whum whum whum . . .
He became aware that his heartbeats matched the rhythm of the wings; and then the sound changed and became what sounded like the beating of a skinheaded drum: Brum, brum, brum . . .
. . . and Jer was somewhere else, very different from the lodge; and he was someone else, someone not so very different from himself . . . someone named Jean, who was a Deveraux, like him. . . .
The drummers sounded as the Great Hunt trooped through the forest; the rounded, ringing tones reminded Jean of the drumming that preceded an important execution. Dirgelike and purposeful, relentless . . . death comes for all us, but at this moment we are Death’s army, he thought with amusement.
He was riding Cockerel, his favorite warhorse, at the head of a phalanx of Hunters. Fantasme, the Circle’s falcon familiar, rode on his shoulder like an eager little brother, screeching for his dinner.
The drummers marched on foot several meters ahead. All in all, a glorious sight, the Deveraux on the move through the Greenwood, home of the God in his aspect as King of Nature and of the Hunt. Green and red livery, fine ermine robes, crimson jewels and fine golden cloaks from the Holy Land gleamed and flashed and sparkled beneath the smile of the sun.
Swelling with pride, Jean signaled to the flushers to continue their work. With large wooden canes, they smacked the forest undergrowth, easily driving out the foxes, ermine, bears, and other game, which Jean and the others would happily slaughter, spurs to the flanks of their mounts, swords and hatchets drawn and dripping with gore and blood.
They had been routing out the animals for hours, with great success. Behind the lines of noblemen, servants loaded the carcasses of the animals routed thus far; the scent of blood was intoxicating to the clusters of hunting hounds that strained at their leads beside and around the tumbrels. Their eagerness and bloodlust matched the men’s own.
Jean’s father, the Duc Laurent de Deveraux, trotted up beside his son and smiled broadly at him. He tipped his head, swathed in fine velvet and a golden tassel, to Fantasme, who screeched in reply. Laurent was dressed in hunting finery of ermine and leather. Jean was a younger version of the great lord of the manor—flashing, dark eyes and heavy brows, an abundance of dark, shiny hair and beard. Their noses were quite straight, their mouths strong, not too fleshy. Deveraux faces were hard and sharp. Deveraux faces promised no mercy, no tenderness, no warmth. They were warriors’ faces. Leaders’ faces. Some said devils’ faces . . .
“We’ll have a magnificent feast,” the Duke said approvingly, gesturing with his head over his shoulder at the huge amount of game they had harvested. “We’ll show those posturing Cahors how real men make a wedding banquet.”
Jean smiled proudly at his father. “And make a wedding bed as well.”
The two laughed lustily. The Duke clapped his son on his shoulder and said, “In the old days of the coven, the master took the virgins first, you know.”
“Oui, mon père, and as I recall, leadership of the Circle was achieved through combat to the death.” He slid a sly, somewhat challenging glance at his father.
“Touché.” Laurent threw back his head and laughed, clearly amused by and unafraid of his son’s mild challenge. The Duke was a lion; Jean knew it would be years before he could hope to inherit the titles, both of their House and of the coven. The prospect did not bother him; his father was a good leader, and Jean profited well from his guidance.
“It’s a grand day for us, boy. The Cahors dowry makes us the richest noble family in all of France.” His eyes glittered at the thought. “Get Isabeau with child tonight, and I’ll make him king by the time he’s twelve.”
“As you wish, Father,” Jean said, sweeping his arm downward like a gallant. His blood stirred at the thought of bedding Isabeau. “I shall do my best.”
“With all the spells we’ve cast, we’ll have a boy by Beltane.”
“Certainement, the Green Man will reward our generosity.” Jean jerked his head in the direction of the animals they had already slaughtered. “We’re giving him plenty to eat. And soon we’ll give him plenty more.”
The two smiled at each other. Laurent made a magical motion with his hand and winked at his son. Almost simultaneously with the gesture, a flusher dressed in Deveraux green and scarlet emerged from the thick copses of chestnut trees and shouted, “The first of the prized flesh!”
“Oyez, oyez, the first of the prized flesh!” shouted Compte Alain DuBruque, the Marshal of the Hunt. “This bounty is reserved, mes seigneurs, for the bridegroom!”
A roar of approval rose from the lines of the mounted huntsmen. The drums thundered; the hounds bayed and lurched. Jean let go of his reins and held both hands above his head, receiving the approbation of the gathering as his due. Cockerel pranced in a circle and chuffed and Fantasme capered above his head, crying with bloodlust. Jean put his heels to Cockerel’s hot, solid flanks, and the fantastic stallion reared majestically. Fantasme landed on his head, riding the horse like its master.
“Release the dogs!” Jean commanded.
Trumpets flared. From the rear of the hunting company, a brace of dogs, made savage from near-starvation, were loosed. Shrieking and baying, they dashed through the ranks of human hunters, dodging horse hooves as they hurtled themselves toward the shadows of the forest. Jean joined the race, Cockerel’s mighty hooves narrowly missing the eager curs.
Then the quarry emerged, forced into the open by the threshers. A tall peasant of perhaps sixteen, he was. Jean was pleased; the quarry was a young, vigorous man, capable of many more years of life. It was a good sign; the Green Man would be appreciative of such a fine gift, and surely requite his acolyte’s efforts with a male child. The firstborn of the Cahors and Deveraux must be an heir. Laurent and Jean had no idea how long the alliance between them would last; who knew if it would be long enough for him to get a second child on his new wife?
Galloping ahead of the dogs, Jean reached the man, who, seeing him, turned tail and fled. Fantasme screamed with eagerness and flew after him.
Fool, Jean thought with a vicious thrill; this horse outran a thousand infidels in Jerusalem; does he think an underfed serf can achieve what hardened warriors could not?
To shouts of encouragement from his men, Jean urged Cockerel forward; then, coming abreast of the man, he drew his sword, let go of the reins, and arced downward at an angle. At that moment, the young serf looked fearfully over his shoulder. He saw the sword headed for him and opened his mouth to shriek. Too late; Jean’s sword sliced off his head, very cleanly and neatly. The head shot forward for some distance before it smacked against the earth and rolled.
Jean jerked his right boot out of his spur and hoisted himself over the saddle, so that he was draped at a dangerous angle on the left flank of his charger. Like a wild Arabian, he leaned down, grabbed up the head, and threw his body upright astride his saddle once more. He held it high for all to see while the dogs dove in a frenzied heap upon the headless, still twitching corpse. Blood gushed from the neck, and the horrified eyes stared at Jean for a moment. There were some who said that those who were beheaded lived for a few seconds afterward; in case that was true, Jean laughed at the dying face and said, “Your death brings me a boy child, or I curse your soul to the Devil.”
The eyes rolled up in the head. And Fantasme took his share while the assemblage cheered their familiar . . . and the heir of their Circle.
Laurent galloped up and cried, “Well done, my son!” He held out his hands, and Jean tossed the head into his father’s arms. Then he waved at his cheering fellows and cantered away to prepare for his wedding, leaving the others to take the rest of the peasants selected for the Hunt.
Moonlight and firelight gleamed across the courtyard of Castle Deveraux. The great stone gargoyles that had haunted Jean’s childhood nights stared down at the assembly, fire pouring from their snouts. Torch flames whipped in the warm air, and great bonfires flared from the tunnels leading down to the dreaded dungeons, infamous throughout France as bastions of unspeakable cruelty. Woe betide him who crosses a Deveraux, went the saying, and it was true. The Cahors had been wise to entangle their fate with the Deveraux, now that they knew the Deveraux had achieved the creation of Black Fire. They would be loath to have it used against them.
As was the custom of the day, Isabeau joined Jean in front of the closed chapel doors. Men and women married before church doors; thus it was no insult to the Bishop that they did not go inside the church. On this night of the Blood Moon, the two stood facing each other before banks of lilies and twining ivy. Lilies were the flower of the Cahors, and ivy, of the Deveraux. Fantasme and Pandion were present, each preening on a beautifully decorated perch. Loose them, and they would kill each other.
Isabeau was like a fantastic she-dragon, dressed as the mighty lady she was, and would become, in ebony shot with silver thread. But she trembled like a shy virgin, and by the light of the full moon, he saw how pale she was beneath her black and silver veil.
How long will you be my lady? he wondered silently. How long before our Houses feud once more, and I poison or behead you, or burn you at the stake?
At this, she looked up at him, her eyes flinty. She didn’t blink, didn’t waver as he returned her gaze. Her eyes glowed a soft blue. The air between them thrummed with tension. He was delighted; this lady had a spine, by the God! He’d best look to his own person, or she would be the one to do him in.
He chuckled low in his throat, then turned his attention to his father.
As the two houses chanted in Latin and languages even more ancient, Laurent held his athame at the ready, preparing to cut open the wrists of the marrying couple. The hood of his dark crimson robe concealing his face, he towered like a dark statue before the altar. Isabeau’s mother, Catherine, also wore black and silver; they were the colors of their House.
It was a glorious sight for those assembled, and power and passion flared and rose between the young couple as they were joined, soul to soul, until the end of days. Their wrists were cut and blood mingled together in flesh and into flesh, as Laurent and Catherine bound their children’s left arms together with cords soaked in herbals and unguents designed to ensure fertility. Both Houses were strong and boasted many young ones, but those of the Coventry were scattered throughout the land, and there could never be enough witches and warlocks in France to please either family.
Once more, Isabeau began trembling, and lowered her gaze. Jean was not fooled. The strong, cruel blood of Cahors ran through her veins. She was a skilled witch, and she had cast spells that could match many of his own in bloodless, single-minded purpose.
Indeed, he knew that she and her family believed they had arranged this match with their own magics, their aim being to tame the hot-blooded Deveraux. The two houses had never agreed on a single course of action to get what they wanted, which was complete control of their region of France, and in due time, the crown bestowed upon them by the Christian bishop at Reims. To win that, the Deveraux were active, direct, and violent. Enemies fell to curses or swords. Obstacles were cut down, burned, poisoned.
In contrast, the Cahors, while certainly no saints, preferred subterfuge and complicated diplomacy to further their own ends. Where a Deveraux would murder an inconvenient cardinal in his bed, the Cahors would entice him to their favor with jewels and maidens, or urge him to sin and then threaten blackmail. They pitted brother against brother, organizing whispering campaigns and planting false witnesses to such extent that no one with any modicum of power could trust another.
Thus the Cahors claimed to be more discreet and peace-loving. They argued that the Deveraux were too obvious and overt with their use of spells and magics, and the hidden things that only those allied with “un-Christian elements” would know. With their “impatience,” the Deveraux provoked the common folk to grumble about witchcraft, and murmur about bringing down both families by appealing to the Pope.
The Deveraux, for their part, knew that the Cahors angered many of the other noble families and lines of France, to the point that several prominent castled names had refused to have anything to do with either Cahors or Deveraux. It was one thing to anger slaves; it was quite another to sever relations with slave owners.
Thus the Cahors, thinking themselves the cleverer of the two families, had decided to bind their heiress to the heir of Deveraux—they had no male issue in line for the castle—and Jean and Laurent had scoffed privately at their many spells and rituals designed to engender Jean’s lust for Isabeau. What they did not realize was that for years the Deveraux coven masters had sacrificed untold virgins and propitiated the Lord of the Greenwood in all his many guises, in order to inspire the Cahors to the match in the first place. Laurent wanted Isabeau Cahors in his castle—whether as his son’s wife or his own mistress, it made no difference. For if she lived in his castle, she was his hostage. The Cahors loved their daughter and would let no harm come to her. It must be clear to them that she was more likely to live to an old age if she was the property of a Deveraux man, and the mother of Deveraux sons.
All this ran through Jean’s mind during the ceremony, but at the instant that Isabeau’s blood mingled with his own, he was enflamed with love for her. Uncanny surges of adoration made him reel; he had always wanted to bed her, of course—what red-blooded man would not, for she was an unparalleled beauty—but now he could barely stand for love of her.
I not only desire her, but I love her truly, he thought, reeling. I love her in the manner in which weak men love women! I am unmanned! What have they done to me?
At that moment, Isabeau inhaled sharply, and stared up at him, her eyes wide with wonder. She feels it, too. Has someone enchanted us both?
He glanced at his father, who was invoking the God to protect their union. His gaze slid from Laurent to his new mother-in-law, Catherine. She returned his scrutiny, and the merest hint of a smile whispered across her lips.
It was she, he thought fiercely. How dare she? Before this night is over, I will strangle her in her bed. Then a strange, new emotion washed over him. That would cause Isabeau great grief. I cannot harm her lady mother . . .
He took a step backward. I have been poisoned. I am being manipulated.
He said aloud, “This marriage—”
His father stopped chanting and stared at him. A hush descended over the assemblage.
He read in his father’s eyes a warning: I have toiled for years to achieve this match. Do not thwart me, lad. Don’t forget, you have a younger brother. Should you prove to be a disappointment, he can easily take your place.
Jean took a breath, and then he barely nodded, to show his father that he understood, and said, “This marriage joins two great houses. I am overcome with joy that my bride and I stand here tonight.”
A cheer rose up—perhaps not a very enthusiastic one, for the Cahors were anxious about being surrounded by Deveraux, and many of the Deveraux opposed the match.
Isabeau said nothing, but her expression softened. A tear welled in her eye and ran down her cheek. Jean reached beneath her veil and caught the tear with his forefinger, then raised it to his mouth and slipped his fingertip between his lips. It was an intimate, loving gesture that was not lost on the onlookers, who murmured with approval and surprise. Jean was not known for his tenderness in matters relating to women.
The ceremony ended at last, and with trumpets and torches Jean led his bride into the great hall of Castle Deveraux for the bridal feast.
Echoing through the rooms of stone, a faint cry of agony caught Isabeau’s attention. She looked up at her groom.
“Sacrifices,” Jean told her. “We’ll go a little later, to preside over the last few.”
She dipped her head in assent. She still had not spoken, he noticed.
“Did they take your voice, so that you could not refuse this match?” he asked her, an edge in his tone.
The look she flashed at him was one of pure lust and adoration. “There is nothing I will refuse you, Jean de Deveraux.”
His loins filled with fire and he smiled at her. She smiled back, and they led the way to the tables.
And they went to the dungeons later, and what he made her see, what they did together to living, breathing human beings . . . to sacrifices for the sake of their marriage, and their legacy . . .
Jer’s eyes snapped open. His chest was heaving and he heard his own voice muttering, “No, no, no, no.”
Eddie and Kialish were both crouched beside him, Eddie with his hand on Jer’s shoulder. He had been shaking him hard.
Jer was going to be sick. The atrocities he’d witnessed in his vision, the tortures . . . he was revolted. He shoved Eddie aside and ducked out of the lodge as fast as he could, staggered a few feet, and fell to his hands and knees. Bile churned in his stomach and he coughed it up, tears welling in his eyes as the acid seared his throat.
Then emptied physically but still not emotionally, he rose to his feet and lurched toward his car.
Eddie and Kialish caught up and walked abreast of him. Eddie said, “What’s up, Jer?”
“I’m going home.”
“What did you see?” Kialish wanted to know. “What happened, man?”
Jer shook his head. “Nothing I want to talk about.”
His friends traded glances. “We can go to my dad,” Kialish suggested. His father was a shaman. “I think you need him.”
“Thanks.” Jer didn’t break his stride, but he flashed Kialish a grim smile of appreciation. “What I need is a new family.”
He had told Eddie and Kialish a few things about his father and his brother, and over the months he figured they must have connected a few of the dots he’d left out. Not all of them, but enough to at least be sympathetic. Kari knew less about his background, because he didn’t trust her as much. She was power hungry and, truth be told, she was beginning to wear on him. Hey, great times together and all that, but she was pushy and nosy. He had to watch his back all the time around her.
As his friends looked on, he pulled his jeans over his loincloth and found his gray UW Seattle T-shirt among the clutter of books in the backseat. His hands were shaking. He leaned against the car to catch his breath, fished his keys out of his pocket, yanked open the driver’s door, and slid in.
“I’m not sure you should drive,” Kialish ventured. “You’re too shook up.”
“I’m fine.” He jabbed the keys into the ignition. The engine roared and Kialish stepped back so Jer could shut the door.
With bare feet he peeled out, brakes squealing.
What’s happening? he thought angrily. My dad misses Lammas and I go on a vision quest to Hell.
He wanted some answers. Dad had damn well better have some. . . .
Michael was furious. He kept it from his mistress as he spoke to her on the phone, but his wrath was such that he could have strangled her with pleasure, and dropped her dead body onto the floor.
“Of course Holly should live in San Francisco, if that’s what she wants.” His tone couldn’t have been more casual. He picked up a pair of chopsticks from an empty bag of some take-out Chinese one of the boys had brought home and broke them in two.
On the other end of the line, Marie-Claire said, “She didn’t know we existed. My brother Danny never told her about us.”
Maybe Daniel Cathers knew Holly was the keeper of the family power, he thought, even angrier. And now the little bitch wants to stay in California with a family friend.
That’s too bad . . . for the friend.
Just then, Jeraud slammed into the house. Michael gave him an inquiring look and raised a finger to indicate that Jer should give him a moment. His son crossed his arms and glared at him.
“So I’m going to stay here,” Marie-Claire continued. “For the services. It’s in the local papers,” she added distractedly. “It’s big news around here.”
“And you’re staying with this Barbara Davis. . . .” He trailed off, watching Jeraud’s temper mounting.
“Chin,” she finished. “Barbara Davis-Chin. It’s a lovely house. There’s a guest room. Holly’s staying in it and I’m going to sleep in the living room. Nobody wants to be in Tina’s room. That’s the daughter.”
“Give me your address,” he ordered, then caught himself and said sweetly, “so I can check in on you. And to send flowers,” he added in a moment of inspiration.
“Oh, Michael, that’s so kind.” She was obviously very touched. “I wish you could be here.”
“Me, too.” He paused. “I need to go.”
“Someone’s there,” she guessed. “Will you call me later? At bedtime?” she added huskily.
“Yes. Adieu.” She loved it when he spoke French to her.
“Adieu.” The entire situation was high drama for her, and she was enjoying her part in it. Life as a Seattle housewife, no matter how wealthy, could be dull at times.
Michael hung up. “What’s up?” he said to Jer.
“You said you didn’t know very much about our family history. I think you know more than you’ve told me.”
Michael assessed him. “I’m surprised at you. You’ve never seemed very interested in the old tree before. Did you find something interesting on the Net?”
“We were torturers,” Jer said. “We killed hundreds of people.” He stayed where he was, balling and unballing his fists.
We killed thousands, my boy, Michael thought, but aloud he said, “I doubt that very much. Who told you that? That girl you hang out with at the university? Sissy Spaced-out?” He made fun of Kari Hardwicke at every opportunity. If he could have managed it without raising suspicion, she’d be dead already.
“Is it true?” Jer demanded. He narrowed his eyes. “What else have you kept from me?”
Michael turned away, making a sudden decision. Holly Cathers is coming here. This boy might be the one who has what it takes, not me or Eli. I could put her in thrall to him, make her the Lady to his Lord.
And then I’ll make sure he’s always in thrall to me.
“I’m going to San Francisco,” he informed his son. “I’ll be gone for a few days.”
“Don’t you walk away from me! I want to know!” Jer shouted at his back. “Who are we? What are we?”
Michael chuckled to himself. “You know what we are, Jeraud. You’ve always known. We’re warlocks, and we’re allied with the Dark. We’re what is commonly referred to as evil.”
“You liar!” Jer roared.
A bolt of crackling green energy whipped past Michael and hit the wall, scorching the trailing ivy wallpaper. Michael was impressed that his son had harnessed such strong magical power. But he was also a lousy shot.
Slowly he pivoted around, gazing coolly at his child. He channeled force into his own facial features, his bones, even the cells of his hair. The transformation gave him added strength and an air of authority.
“Do not forget,” he said in a low voice, “that I am your father.”
Jer pursed his lips and swung out of the kitchen. Michael stayed where he was, listening to Jer’s footfalls on the stairs, then down the hallway, and then into his room. His bedroom door slammed so hard, the kitchen windows rattled.
Michael walked calmly to the pantry and opened it. Its walls were brick, its shelves unfinished oak. On the right side of the third row of shelves, he pulled out a false brick that was nothing but a piece of facing. In the hollow space behind it, he pulled out a carved jade box.
In the box lay the preserved eye of an Ottoman Turk, a souvenir from the Crusades. The Deveraux House had sent many second and third sons in an effort to win even greater glory.
Michael spoke ancient Arabic over the eye, then held it up and stared into its shriveled brown iris. In its tissue, he saw a clear reflection of his son’s movements upstairs in his room.
Jer was pacing and muttering. He stopped, lay down on his bed, punched the pillow, and sighed.
Michael watched him for about a minute longer. He can be molded. I can use him to get exactly what I want: ultimate control of the Supreme Coven. Why didn’t I see it before? Why did I think it had to be me? Or even my firstborn, Eli?
With a happy sigh, he put the eye back into the box, the box into the hollow, replaced the false brick, and crossed to the phone. He punched in the home office number of his travel agent, who had once been his mistress. He had broken it off with her “for her sake.” She was only one of many whom he had dumped, who thought he had done it for the noble reason of not messing up her life.
“Hey, Pat, my love,” he said easily, “yes, it’s me. Listen, I need a ticket ASAP to San Francisco. Open-end return, okay?”
Upstairs in his bedroom, Jer touched his forehead. A sudden, brutal headache squeezed his temples. Breathing deeply, he intoned a spell to ward away pain. Nothing happened, and the pain got worse.
When in doubt, take Tylenol, he thought wearily, rolling over. And why do I even bother trying to talk to my father?
He raised up on his elbows. Then he froze.
At the foot of the bed, magical green energy swirled in an oval shape about six feet high. It was about three feet across, and as it hovered in the air, a darker shape appeared in the center. Veins of deep ivy green crackled from it, and layers and shards of glowing forms tumbled around it in a circular motion, like the pieces of glass in a shifting kaleidoscope.
The shaper grew, and Jer could make out a head, shoulders, and limbs. It was a human figure.
The oval bobbled and began to close, and the figure cocked its head as if startled, observing the shrinking perimeter, then looked straight at Jer. The features were unclear. He felt, rather than saw, its gaze.
What Jer did next, he knew was not of his own choosing. He crawled on his hands and knees to the foot of his bed and held out his left hand. His mouth opened, and he spoke sounds he had never heard before.
From the oval, scarlet and green energy crackled, then darted forward to connect with his fingers.
Violently, Jer was thrown back against the bed, slamming his already aching head against the head-board. It felt as if his skull were being cracked open with a hammer, and for a moment he sprawled in a heap, unable to move. Finally, with a grunt, he sat back up, dizzy and sick to his stomach from the pain.
Once again the beams shot forward. The jolt was enough to knock him off the bed, and it spread over him like a pulsating blanket, pinning him to the floor. It shimmered over him from head to foot, sizzling, sending tendrils of aching, jittery sensation throughout his body. Shutting his eyes tightly, he braced himself for more pain, but this time none came. Something new was happening; it was as if something were trying to find a way inside him, poking and prodding the surface of his skin for an opening . . . or a weakness.
He spoke words of magic, very strong, very powerful, to kill the entity or the charge or whatever it was, or at least to render it inert. Though the sensation lessened, it didn’t completely dissipate. He tried another spell. Nothing happened.
Hell with this, he thought, and opened his eyes.
At the foot of his bed, deep inside the oval, the human shape writhed in agony. The figure was completely engulfed in flames. It fell to its knees, arms flailing, trying to put itself out. Jer watched in horror as it rolled and jerked, its head arched backward, its mouth open in a scream Jer couldn’t hear.
The oval constricted, telescoping in, and as Jer reached toward it, the energy slid off his body like a net and returned to the pinpoint that was all that was left of the shape. He scrambled toward it again, but in the next instant, it winked out of existence. Every trace of it vanished.
The distinctive sound of crackling flames ricocheted through his mind, and then a man’s distant voice, faint but filled with hatred:
Don’t forget. She did this to me. Don’t trust the witch. Show her no mercy or this will happen to you.
Then a loud wailing filled Jer’s head; the resulting pain made him cry out and jerk into a fetal position, his arms protectively cradling his throbbing skull.
He had no idea how long he lay that way, but when he came to, it was morning, his head no longer hurt, and his father had left for San Francisco.