Resurrection (5 page)

Alex sat down beside her. “Don't worry; we'll find them. For now, though, we have a job to do.”

“Can't we just skip this one?” she asked.

His eyes turned dark. “No, we can't. Look, every time we take out one of these covens, we're striking a blow at the Supreme Coven. Look how much chaos they're responsible for, and how much death. How many have you alone lost because of them?”

Too many,
Holly thought, as the faces floated in her mind. She saw her parents, Tina, Barbara, Marie-Claire, Eddie, Kialish, Dan, Silvana, Tante Cecile, Josh, Sasha, Kari, Alonzo, José Luis, whom she had never even met, and Hecate, whom she herself had drowned. She might as well add Jer to that list. He was as lost to her as he would have been if he were dead.

Alex kissed her. Although she did not resist him, she did not return it. She knew what his plans were for her, for
them
. She needed time, though. Maybe one day he would kiss her and she wouldn't think of Jer. She couldn't help but think of the members of Alex's coven—she couldn't think of it yet as
her
coven—who would willingly share his kiss and his bed. Still, she, Pablo, and Armand had had very little contact with Alex's followers, even though they were all traveling together.

The Temple of the Air, at least those members who had come with them, was a dozen strong and a mix of male and female. They weren't rude to Holly, Pablo, and Armand, but neither were they welcom
ing. It was sometimes easy to forget they were even there, since they kept their distance. Alex had chosen to spend more and more of his time with Holly. She, in turn, had stayed close to Pablo and Armand. Them she knew and trusted, and that was important, especially when her whole world was chaos.

“Cheer up, Holly. I have some news you will really like,” Alex said, breaking through her thoughts.

“What?”

“I've found another Supreme Coven headquarters, and after we wipe out this coven, we're heading there next. Together we have the power to destroy it.”

Holly took a deep breath. “Where?”

Alex conjured a globe, and it spun slowly in the air in front of her. On it she saw a red dot. She could hear her high school geography teacher shouting in her head, but she was too tired for guessing games or trying to remember something that seemed so long ago. She looked at Alex questioningly.

He smiled. “It's in Bombay.”

Paris: Eli

Cloaked in invisibility, dressed for the winter chill in jeans and a thick black hoodie, Eli shielded the flame of his black candle as he threw salt and hare's blood into the wind and recited a spell in the old tongue to find the One Who Is Lost. A trio of oblivious German
tourists passed him; a nun in a black-and-white habit paused, tilting her head, as if trying to detect the source of her sudden unease.

Yes, I made a blood sacrifice on your hallowed ground,
he silently taunted her.
What of it? Your religion is steeped in blood sacrifice.

His thoughts instantly returned to Mary, and he winced. Seeing her in that cave had led him to find a boat that was hidden in there. He had returned in the morning, afraid of what he would find, but her image had faded. He had tried not to think of the boat as some gift magically left across time for him, but it was hard, especially when he had searched that cave his second day on the island.

Occult energy rippled along his skin like an aura. He had been learning more and more to harness his newfound powers. Surely, armed with that, he could find one witch and her child.

He glided unseen in the weak sunlight as he walked along the rooftop of Notre Dame Cathedral. The ancient city of Paris sprawled beneath him, white marble and skyscraper, and endless traffic. Snowy fog wound around the base of the Eiffel Tower and bathed the Seine. He'd had a sense—a hope—that Nicole and her baby had fled there.

That baby might be mine,
he thought, clenching his fists inside his hoodie.
And they are in danger
.

All of Holly's covenates were on the hit list of the Supreme Coven. They'd gotten past the wards at London headquarters and had taken out innumerable warlocks. Now Holly and Alex were on the rampage, seeking out warlock covens and destroying them. As far as Eli could tell, Nicole and the baby weren't with them. At least Holly had that much sense.

I have to find them, before the Supreme Coven does.
He was sick with fear. Sick, and astonished with himself. His ambitious, cruel father hadn't raised him to believe in such mundane fantasies as love. Eli was a Deveraux warlock, consecrated to the Horned God, and it was obvious even to him that this consuming worry was wrongheaded and harmful. He was so distracted that any number of his enemies could have snuck up on him at that very moment, and he wouldn't even have noticed if one of them had cut him down.

Which is why I have to find her
.

Although the city sparkled, and sun glinted off the windshields of the thousands of cars, trucks, and buses barreling down the narrow Parisian streets, no telltale red glow revealed the object of his finder's spell: Nicole Anderson Moore, widow of James, and daughter-in-law of Sir William. And her child.

That child is mine. It has to be. Because Nicole is mine.

She has to be.

He placed his palms on the battlement of the cathedral, and listened to the blood roaring in his ears. Magic thrummed through him. Once, he had been very skilled at watching and waiting. But no more.

No more.

Frustrated, he trudged back to his hotel room. He slammed the door and flopped onto the bed. With a huff, he tried to decide what to do next.

 

As Philippe knelt inside Notre Dame Cathedral, he realized he had never felt so alone. He lit two white candles and prayed fervently as he stared into their twin flames. Each represented a group of people he was desperate to find. He prayed to find them both, but he would be happy if he could at least find one.

He had been a fool to leave Nicole's side. When he had gotten the distress call from Pablo, though, it had been one of the most vivid, terrifying moments of his life, and it had awakened him out of a deep sleep. It had taken him a couple of weeks, but he had at last tracked the group to Cologne. After that, though, it was as if they had simply vanished.

When he had finally given up, he had tried to return to Nicole's side, only to discover that for some reason he could not find her. He should have been able to find his lady; they were in thrall to each other,
and that was an unbreakable bond. Something dark seemed to be hiding her from his sight. Something dark crossed his mind, and the flame of his candles were snuffed by an unseen hand.

 

Eli woke with a shout. Sweat ran off his body in sheets and he was shaking uncontrollably.
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
was on his TV, but in French. He didn't know how he'd fallen asleep or how the set had turned on, but it was two in the afternoon and he'd been out for at least half an hour. He felt completely drained in a way he never had before. He had pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion before, but it had been nothing like this. He felt as though all the life had gone out of him, only to suddenly be restored. It terrified him.

He stood up and walked around the room, stretching his limbs and conjuring a few small magics. Everything seemed to be functioning, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had lost something.

“Apparently just my sanity,” he said to himself.

He'd assumed his search spell would have yielded results by now. After all, he was an extremely powerful warlock. Maybe Nicole didn't want him to find her. The thought wounded him to the quick, which was almost as irritating as his failed magic.

“I demand an answer,” he grumbled to the chilly air.

Magic crackled. On the TV screen a close-up shot of Notre Dame Cathedral flashed; then the TV abruptly turned off.

Eli stared for a moment, surprised. He knew better than to look for a rational explanation. Magic was in the air; he could feel it. Apparently the next stop on his quest would take him inside one of the most famous of Parisian landmarks. Ironic, given that he'd spent the morning on top of it.

“Why'd it have to be a church?” he sighed.

 

Eli had been practicing dark magic long enough to know that no matter what you did or who you sacrificed, sometimes you still didn't get what you wanted. As he stood in the back of Notre Dame and stared at all the people who had lit candles and were praying fervently in front of them, he speculated that in many ways all religions were alike. All of them left the practitioner with unanswered questions, unfound objects, and bitter disappointments to temper the joys. They also instilled in their worshippers a love of ritual. The people who knelt in prayer in front of their candles reminded him of many a night he had spent doing almost the exact same thing.

He still wasn't sure what he was doing inside the cathedral, or what it was he was meant to find. Still, the message had been very clear. He walked for a few
minutes, taking in the ancient stone and the sheer size of the building. Finally, with nothing better to do, he took a candle for himself, lit it, and, choosing a place somewhat away from the other supplicants, knelt before the candle, a smile twisting his lips.

A few minutes later an older man knelt next to him. His lips moved in silent prayer, and Eli fought the urge to make his own prayers—to the Horned God—audible. It would be amusing but in the end pointless, as it would bring him no closer to finding Nicole.

A flash of silver in the old man's hands caught Eli's attention. He turned his head slightly, expecting to see a rosary—but saw instead a pentagram. The man looked up and met Eli's eyes.

“That's a symbol of witchcraft,” Eli said mildly, purposefully choosing to call it that and not Wicca.

“Not always. It was a Christian symbol for a long, long time. It represents the five wounds of Christ and the five senses of man.”

“I've never heard such a thing.”

“Few have. But where I come from, young man, there are Christians not so ignorant of their heritage. They know who they are and what they're looking for.”

The hair on the back of Eli's neck lifted. Something about the old man unnerved him as nothing else had
since he was a child. Eli knew he was a messenger, but from whom?

The young warlock licked his suddenly dry lips. “And where is this
magical
place?”

“Bombay,” the old man said before returning to his prayers.

Bombay. That's where I need to go
. Eli knelt a moment more before snuffing out his candle.

House Moore, Scarborough: Amanda

The corridors dripped with blood, and the walls expanded, contracted, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. It was a living thing, with a beating heart, and no one else knew. And as soon as she woke up, she would forget.

Amanda swayed as she descended the circular stairs toward the basement, deep, deep down in the earth, where the secrets were buried, where the dangers grew in the dark like mushrooms.

“Amanda, don't come alone.” The voice was inhuman,
slithery, and cold. The words formed before her like black snowflakes, then burst apart and shattered. “You know what to bring.

“What I want.”

Beneath her feet, the floor rippled like lizard skin…

Amanda woke up with a jerk. Panting, she flicked on the lamp on her nightstand and cringed at the sight of the leering faces supporting the green and red canopy of her four-poster bed. The Green Man, with his intense hollow eyes and face-splitting smile, tongue extended, adorned each of the four ebony posts. The image was everywhere; was she surprised that she dreamed about Moore House night after night?

The problem was, she couldn't remember any of those dreams. And no one else seemed to be having them.

She was wearing her light pink cow footie pajamas—Nicole and Owen had them too, although Owen's were yellow—and she was glad for the extra layer of warmth as she climbed down from the bed and padded across the black marble floor. She opened the massive bank of curtains with the silk pull. Weak lavender and cream light poured through the leaded panes of the windows. Another night over, and she was glad about it, even though witches favored the hours when the moon held sway.

She crossed back to her bed and felt under the pillow for the charm she had placed there. A small dream
catcher woven with silver threads gleamed in her hand. Pieces of blue and green aventurine dangled from black and silver ribbons. Black and silver were the colors of the ancient Cahors family, the noble French family whose witchblood ran in Amanda's, Nicole's, and Holly's veins. Their branch of the family went by the name of Cathers, and the three cousins had learned of the connection two years before, when Holly Cathers, their cousin, had lost both her parents to drowning.

We'd thought it was an accident then. We know better now.

She placed the dream catcher in a small silver box. Blue aventurine was a multipurpose healing stone that increased visionary powers. Green was called the Stone of Heaven, for healing, protection, and guidance on new adventures.

Then she placed the box under her arm, picked up her flashlight from the nightstand, and tiptoed out of her room. Across the hall Tommy's door was closed. They weren't sharing a bedroom yet, which made it easier for her to conduct her research into the nature of her bad dreams.

We're in thrall. We should be doing this together,
she thought guiltily as she tiptoed past his door and down the hall. Nicole's door was shut as well. Amanda's tiny nephew, Owen, would be asleep in his cradle beside Nicole's bed. Richard, who was Nicole's father and Owen's grandfather, slept in an adjoining room.
Amanda knew there was an MP5 submachine gun beside his bed, in addition to the many magical charms she, Nicole, and Tommy had filled his bedroom with.

Ever since moving in a month before, they'd had endless discussions about whether or not they should stay in the house. She, Amanda, had wanted to leave, and Tommy, the lord to her lady, had agreed with her. But Nicole felt Owen would be safest there. Thanks to Lawyer Derek, Nicole had confirmed that spells designed to protect the house against intruders clearly did not apply to her or Owen—or any of those whom Nicole had invited across the threshold.

But that could be a trap too.

Nicole had made a good case for staying, at least until they pulled themselves together—after the battle at the London headquarters of the Supreme Coven. They didn't know what the future held; they couldn't protect Owen if they were on the run. They had to live somewhere. They had warded and charmed the house with layers and layers of white magic. And yet…

And yet.

Amanda wondered if Nicole wanted to stay in the house in case Philippe was trying to come to her. He had left shortly after Owen's birth, promising to check in daily until he found Holly and the others. They had still been on the run then; he had disappeared before they had moved into James Moore's mansion. It would
be easier for a magic spell to pinpoint their location if they were not a moving target.

It wasn't like Philippe to leave Nicole; they were thrallmates, and their first loyalty was to each other. Pablo's magical distress call had clearly alarmed him. Maybe Pablo's crisis was directly connected to Nicole's and Owen's safety.

Amanda prayed to the Goddess every hour to keep him safe and to aid him on his quest. But as the days and weeks passed without word from him, she grew increasingly troubled.

Amanda could reach only two conclusions. Either someone was preventing him from communicating with them or he was dead. She shuddered as she even let the thought enter her mind.

Powerful magic permeated Moore House, of that, Amanda was certain. And if she could use it to discover what had happened to Philippe, she would. Which was one of the few good arguments
she
could make for staying in the house.

Her flashlight beam played over the ancestral portraits of the Moore family, many of them centuries old. A frisson of anxiety shot up her spine at the sight of so many evil warlocks, male and female, staring down at her. Conjuring a sphere of light to chase away the shadows would cost—magic always had a price—and many of the sections of the centuries-old house
weren't wired for electricity. If they stayed, they would have to do something about that.

She stopped at the landing and studied the circular staircase. There had been stairs in her dream. She remembered that much.

She gritted her teeth and went down the stairs to the main floor, where heavy brocade curtains kept out the dawn. Defiantly she pulled them open, and gazed out at the gardens of the house. Topiary trees shaped like falcons and lions posed against a vast field of browned grass and mazes of privet hedges. A marble statue of Pan, an aspect of the Horned God, held a set of faun's pipes to his mouth. Water trickled from the pipes into a reflecting pool, where, despite the cold weather, water lilies floated.

Where was Sir William now? Did the demon he had become retain his personality? Would he be back?

Amanda crossed the great room in the dark, deliberately avoiding the suits of armor standing at attention, the mosaic-like displays of weaponry covering the walls. The Moores' past was England's past, where might made right—hundreds of battles won and fought, for land, honor, and power.

That's still going on,
she thought as she finally reached her destination, the kitchen. She found the light switch and flicked it, revealing a luxurious blend of old and new: marble floors and stone arches encasing fine
mahogany cabinets, granite countertops, and the latest in appliances.

She set the box with the dream catcher down beside the stove and selected a shiny copper pot from the hanging profusion above her head. She filled it with blessed water and added salt, putting it on to boil over the gas. Then she turned on the electric kettle to make tea.

Once the water on the stove had begun to bubble, she wafted the dream catcher over the water and chanted in Latin, “Reveal to me, all that I see; unravel the seams of my dreams.”

She pulled out of a drawer a plain five-by-seven notebook she had bought in the village grocery store, and flipped open to a new page, which she dated August 1. She grabbed up an equally nondescript pen and held it over the paper, waiting for images to materialize and rise from the gossamer threads. First came the blurry faces of Tommy and the others, as she had expected; she always dreamed about them. Next a few random memories of the day—sweeping a floor, making a grilled cheese sandwich, and playing with Owen.

And at last, fillips of nonsensical images that she prayed held the keys to her nightmares, and the house:

 

a lily—symbol of the three Ladies of the Lily—she, Nicole, and Holly

a hulking black demon with fangs of burning
embers and black reptilian eyes—Sir William? His dead son, James?

a crystal key—hmm, white magic? A revelation?

a rabbit—fertility. Owen?

 

And then there was nothing more. She waited, surprised. Dozens, sometimes hundreds, of images rose from the dream catcher. Since implementing the ritual, she had never listed fewer than thirty-nine—a magical number, as it was thirteen times three. Four was…wrong.

She recited the incantation again.

The water in the pot bubbled and spat, hissing like a cat. She moved back slightly to avoid being scalded. Steam clouded her vision for an instant, and then image after image rose from the pot, swirling and changing into other images. Hastily she scribbled them down:
“a blue eye; a sweet smile; Owen's face; a holly branch; water (an ocean? lake?) a pyramid; a yellow flower; a blue robe with gold; a ravine; a bus driving past a castle; more flowers; shadows; trees; sunlight…”

About a minute later the water had boiled away, and she had filled three pages. As her tea steeped, she murmured incantations over the dream catcher, cleansing it of the previous night's bounty and preparing it to snare the coming night's new dreams. Then she prayed to the Goddess in her incarnation as Athena
for insight into the meaning of the images. Many witches insisted that every dream held secret codes and messages from the unconscious, designed to instruct and protect.

When Holly had ruled the coven, she had instructed them to stay away from dreamwork. They'd had enough going on in their waking lives to keep them busy, and she'd felt that their enemies might try to attack them magically through their dreams and nightmares. But Holly wasn't there.

We have no idea where she is either.

Amanda's father had suggested they stay off one another's radar unless there was an urgent need to communicate. The fewer people who knew where they were, the better.

But what about Philippe?

She sighed and went to the refrigerator to start breakfast. Amanda, always the good, quiet sister and covenate, the one who made breakfast and cleaned up afterward. Amanda, who only recently had learned to voice her opinions and stand up—shakily—for what she believed in.

Amanda.

She cocked her head. Had someone called her name? She listened, then shrugged and opened the fridge. Eggs, milk, and bread. She'd make French toast. Nicole loved it, and of course she was breast-feeding
Owen, so she needed a lot of calories. He was voracious.

She carried the ingredients to the counter and turned to get out a mixing bowl. She walked past a double stainless steel sink abutting a ceramic splash guard of green and red falcons, and above that was a mahogany cabinet where she kept some dried herbs and some pacifiers for Owen. For a split second the faint image of a

door

whispered

across her peripheral vision.

She frowned and looked around, then studied the sinks, the tiles, the cabinets. Holding the egg carton against her chest, she said aloud, “Did I just see something?”

There was no answer. There was nothing out of place. A sense of soothing calm washed over her, and she gave her head a little shake. Everything was fine. They were safe.

She began breakfast.

Seattle, 1971: Daniel and Marie-Claire Cathers

“You're in a black mood,” Marie-Claire said, pouting.

Daniel Cathers sighed as he turned to look at his sister. She wore a long black dress with a halter style top. Silver bracelets shimmered on her tiny wrists. She
had draped herself across the living room couch, and the contrast with its stark white was stunning.

“You'll ruin my party,” she went on.

“Must everything always be about you?” he snapped.

“Yes,” she said with a shrug of her pale shoulders.

Marie-Claire had always been vain and selfish. He had come to terms with that years before. She was beautiful, and she had used it as an excuse not to have to be anything else.

He turned, determined not to argue with her. He knew from experience it would gain him nothing. She rose fluidly and placed a hand on his arm. When he turned back, he was surprised to see her brow furrowed. She was nervous.

“It's just, Richard is coming tonight and I want everything to be perfect,” she said.

Daniel smiled. “Ah, the man of the hour,” he mocked.

She flushed. “Don't call him that,” she snapped.

He couldn't stop himself from needling her. After all, she was his sister. Fair game. “Yes, I'm sorry, you've been actually going out with him for more than two weeks.”

“For your information we've been dating for three months,” she said, her eyes flashing angrily.

Something in their depths stopped him. “You're serious about him, aren't you?”

She nodded, eyes wide.

“He's crazy, a troublemaker, not exactly what I'd call husband material.”

“I see things differently.”

“And what about him?”

“He already asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, now I see! And you haven't told Mom yet. This ought to be good,” Daniel said, with a lazy, lopsided grin. In his mind he could already hear the earful Marie-Claire had waiting for her.

“I plan to tell her tonight,” she informed him.

Daniel sighed. “You know, he's probably going to get drafted any day now.”

Marie-Claire raised her chin. “So?”

“So, what if he doesn't come back?”

“He'll come back.” She didn't look as sure as she sounded. Her little bracelets jingled as she folded her arms across her chest.