Legacy & Spellbound (43 page)

Despite the rain, she didn't hurry her pace—she couldn't—but walked unsteadily across the gravel, inching toward the three steps that led to the porch.

She climbed them, remembering that, back in Seattle, there had also been three stairs to the porch of the Deveraux home.
Three
was a magical number, and Michael Deveraux was an architect. If he had built this house, he put those stairs there for a reason.

On the porch, she stepped onto a hemp welcome mat decorated in red and green—the Deveraux Coven colors—featuring a silhouette of a black bird, a falcon, in the center. She was careful not to step on the bird, and then she thought better of it and ground her boot heel hard into its face.

I won't let him intimidate me,
she promised herself, then nearly laughed out loud.
Okay, I will let him intimidate me.

I just won't let him kill me.

She reached forward toward the door. The moonlight cast a glimmer on a door knocker in the center of
the carved door, which was a brass rendition of the Green Man, an aspect of the God as a nature deity.

She took a breath, and knocked.

She wasn't surprised when the door swung open.

Summoning every last vestige of her courage, she took a step across the transom. She was standing inside now, in the pitch-black darkness, in a cocoon that muffled the steady patter of the rain on the gravel.

I'm going to betray them all to their worst enemy: Michael Deveraux. The man who's been trying to destroy all of us.

Yes, and he's going to succeed … if I don't find a way to stop him. I didn't want this. I didn't want any of this. From day one, they bullied me and made me go along with them.

Cold and fear penetrated her bones. She was trembling, and her knees were beginning to give way; her tears of frustration ran down her cheeks, salty and warmer than the icy rain.

Then a soft golden light bobbed in front of her eyes, and she blinked, startled.

Michael Deveraux stood less than a foot away from her. His palm was outstretched, and above it, a ball of fire the size of a golf ball floated, casting shadows from beneath his chin onto his features, giving him an incredibly sinister aspect. He had long black hair, a black beard, and heavy lashes. His eyes were quite deep set, and his brows were angled slightly back from his
nose. When he smiled, she shrank back involuntarily.

He reminded her of the Devil.

“Come on in,” Michael Deveraux said jauntily, taking a step back to allow her entry. His heel rang on the stone floor. “Kari, isn't it? We've never formally met, even though you've been sleeping with my son for years.”

Her lips parted, but she didn't know what to say in response, so she kept silent.

He was dressed all in black—black sweater, black jeans, black boots—and in his other hand he held out a heavy earthen goblet. She didn't remember it being there before. “Hot buttered rum,” he said, smiling. “It'll warm you up. Nasty night out.” He raised one brow. “Not fit weather for warlock or witch.”

She hesitated. “I'm not a witch. I just know a few spells.”

His chuckle alarmed her. “Oh, I know what you are, Kari, and what you're not.” He gestured at her with the rum. “Come. Drink.” When she still hesitated, he added slyly, “It won't kill you.” As if to prove his point, he took a sip, sighing contentedly before he lowered it from his mouth.

She said unsteadily, “I-I made a mistake coming here.”

“No. You did exactly the right thing. Believe me.”

He turned and glanced at her, indicating that she should accompany him. When she stepped toward him, the area around them suddenly lit up and she stumbled, startled. There was track lighting overhead, and on the wall in front of her, a mirror framed in beaten silver. She winced at her own reflection. Her makeup had collected under her eyes. She looked like a zombie.

“No magic,” he said airily. “Just motion detectors.”

He led her through the hallway, the soles of their shoes noisy on the hard surface. The walls were crowded with images of fantastic, swirling birds of red and green flying through a verdant forest, the designs painted directly on the white plaster walls. Even the low ceiling above her had been painted with heavy foliage and crazed, vicious birds. Their dark beady eyes seemed to follow her as she walked past them.

At the end of the hallway, Michael opened a set of wooden double doors, revealing a shadowed room illuminated by the glow of flame inside the distended belly of a stone statue of the Horned God. The God's goat-face gleamed cruel and lusty, its taloned hands raised and extended slightly forward as if it were about to pounce on the next hapless person who dared to walk into the room. It sat back on haunches that ended in goat hooves. Kari shivered, looking away.

Other statues stood in the flickering darkness, none of them very distinguishable. All she saw was a vast array of fangs, talons, and horns. Everything sharp, everything ready to cut and wound.

The room was as cold as a meat locker. Her soaked clothes wrapped around her like ice packs.

“Warm yourself,” he invited, gesturing to the statue.

She wished she could refuse, but there was no other source of warmth. She edged uneasily toward the figure, stretching forth her left hand as she took another sip of the rum. This time it tasted good, its alcoholic heat spreading through her chilled veins.

“Where are they?” he asked without further preamble.

She licked her lips.
What was I thinking?

“W-who?” she managed to say.

“Kari, dear,” he said kindly, “there's no other reason you would come to me than to strike some sort of bargain. From what I know of you, I'm guessing that you want to give me the Coven in exchange for my saving my son.”

“You … should save him, anyway,” she replied. She bit her lip and stared into the fire. “He's your child.”

“Did you come here to argue with me?” He
sounded amused. “I don't think I've met anyone as brash as you since my wife left me.”

She licked her lips. “You might be able to turn him, make him be … like you.”

He shook his head. “Years of trying puts the lie to that, Miss Hardwicke. Jer's bound and determined to make my life difficult. Trust me: I'd be much, much better without him.”

He came up beside her and watched the fire. She was aware of how closely he stood next to her; she could smell expensive soap and aftershave, and his body heat mingled with her own. She was shocked to realize that she was becoming aroused.

He's making it happen,
she told herself.
Because I would never … he's so evil.

So powerful,
another voice whispered in her head.

“Talk to me,” he invited. “It'll only be difficult at first.”

Still, she kept her silence. Her heart was pounding again, and she was beginning to worry about having a heart attack. Or that she would faint and he would … would do something that he shouldn't… .

I'm getting really excited.
She glared at him. “Leave me alone,” she blurted.

He burst into laughter. “It's a little late for that.” He grinned at her and added, “Kari, you made the
right decision.” He grabbed her hand and wrapped both his hands around it, blowing gently on her knuckles.

“Just tell me,” he urged. “Tell me where they are. I'll save Jer—if he can be saved.”

She took a breath. “They're in Winters.”

He nodded. “Tell me about this new male witch from the missing Cahors line. Alex Carruthers.”

Her eyes widened. She felt the blood draining from her face and she wished she could stop feeling his skin against her own. “You know about him?” She didn't know why she was surprised. She cocked her head and looked at him. “If you know he exists, you should know everything else about him.” Her fear emboldened her, and she added, “Don't you have scrying stones? Haven't you been spying on us?”

A careless shrug was the only answer he gave her. He took her goblet from her and raised the rim to her lips. Then he tipped it forward, forcing her to take a sip or let the rum and butter splash down her chin.

She let the alcohol warm her veins and give her a measure of courage. Then she cleared her throat and said, “He's very powerful.”

“Really.” He sounded intrigued. “He's their cousin, correct?”

She wondered then if he had tricked her, making
her assume he knew more than he did. It was too late to go back and repair the damage, if she had caused any.

“If”? I'm destroying them all.

“He's a distant cousin, at best. I'm not sure exactly how they're related.” She moved her shoulders. “It's all so complicated.”

He looked unconvinced. “And yet, you're getting a PhD in anthropology. I would think you'd be extremely well-versed on kinship systems.”

“I'm getting a doctorate in folklore,” she corrected.

“Ah. My mistake.” He eased her goblet of rum from her hand and took a hefty swallow. Sighing with contentment, he handed it back to her. “You came here of your own free will,” he reminded her.

Did I?
she wanted to ask him. Now she wasn't so certain… . “His powers are strong,” she continued.

“They would have to be, to defeat Holly.”

There was a strange clattering on the stone floor, like the nails of a dog, followed by a high-pitched cackle. The cackling echoed around the room as the clattering skittered toward Kari; she whirled around, glancing at the floor, then cried out when something flashed past her and landed on Michael's shoulder.

It was an ugly, troll-like creature, almost reptilian in appearance, with long, pointed ears and sharp features. It was unclothed, and leathery-skinned, and it
hissed merrily at Kari, then cocked its head and began to babble at Michael.

“She'ssss trying to break free, free she issss,” it announced, jabbing a long finger over its shoulder. “Going crazzzzzy.”

“Thank you. It's not a problem,” Michael said, patting the thing on its head. “Go find a dead rodent to eat, will you?” He swept the thing off his shoulder. It soared through the air and landed on the floor, then scrabbled away into the darkness.

Kari's knees buckled.

“Oh here, here, how thoughtless of me. You must be exhausted.”

Michael snapped his fingers. An overstuffed chair upholstered in brilliant crimson materialized behind Kari, bumping against her calves. She fell backward into it, sinking into the softness, which was also very warm. Her drink sloshed onto her wrist, sending the scent of nutmeg into the air.

She took a drink to steady herself and leaned back. To her amazement she realized she was about to fall asleep.
He must be casting a spell on me. I was a fool to come here. I was so scared… .

“You did the right thing,” he assured her. “This is really the only reasonable choice you could make. I'm going to kill the rest of them. And I'm going to
begin with Holly.” He looked pleased with himself.

“Jer … ,” she murmured.

“I haven't decided.” He leaned over her, smoothing her wet hair away from her forehead. His eyes were compelling; his smile, a terrible thing.

“I have Holly here,” he told her. “Did you realize that? And in two nights, I'm going to kill her. On the Wind Moon, and when I do it, I'll absorb her power. No one in the history of Coventry will be stronger than I will become.”

He lifted his chin and focused his eyes toward the ceiling. “Your timing couldn't have been more perfect, Kari. For coming to me, I'll spare you. By that, I mean that I won't kill you.” After a beat he added, “That's a good thing, honey.”

She followed his line of sight, and her blood ran cold.

Painted onto the ceiling was an enormous black falcon, its wings stretching into the dark recesses of the room. In its massive, wicked-looking beak it clutched a human heart, and from that heart, blood dripped onto the breast of the huge creature itself. Its eyes— enormous, even for a creature its size—glared down at her, seeming to follow her.

“Fantasme, the spirit of the Great Falcon.” Michael made a motion with his hand. “He lives in the spiritual Greenwood, and there he hunts Pandion.”

Kari heard again the thrumming of the drums of the Great Hunt, a counterpoint to the quicktime wing-beats of the birds that had flown beside her car. She was incredibly dizzy; the room was spinning. She held on to the arms of the chair and began to gasp. Her lids fluttered, and she heard herself moan.

The evil bird lifted its head and screeched. The cry was ear-piercing, shaking her brain inside her skull. The heart in its mouth dropped from the painting, erupting into the real world, and tumbled in a slow-motion float toward Kari.

She lurched to her feet, knocking over the chair, then whirled on her heel and raced awkwardly for the doorway. Michael's laughter trailed behind her.

At the doorway, a wraithlike figure stepped from the darkened hall and blocked her escape. Shorter than she, it was wrapped in a glowing blue gauze, which it slowly lifted as its maniacal laughter trilled from beneath the layers, like the echo of the bird.

Seeing who it was, Kari gasped. Her knees buckled, and she fell hard against the stone floor.

“Bonsoir, ma belle,”
said the figure.

It was Holly, her eyes spinning with madness.

But inside those eyes, cloaked more deeply, were another set of eyes, and they glared at Kari with fury.

Get me out of here!
they demanded.
Maintenant!

>“Isabeau,” Kari whispered. “Isabeau, are you trying to communicate with me?”

Holly herself made no response. Kari wasn't sure she had even heard her. But the eyes said,
Oui! Get me out! He will destroy us all!

Behind Kari, Michael Deveraux said, “Put her somewhere safe, Holly. We'll make good use of her later.”