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.