Resurrection (6 page)

“What if you don't want him when he does? I mean, even if you managed to wait for him, he could come back from Vietnam with pieces missing.”

She slapped him. Despite the sting—or perhaps because of it—his respect for her increased. Maybe she was growing up after all. Still he had a problem seeing his sister as a wife. He gave her a thin smile and left the room.

He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, locked the door, and sat down at his desk. He opened his drawer,
reached underneath the tray that held pens and paper clips, and extracted what he was looking for. It was an ancient manuscript, bound in skin. He unwrapped the black silk cloth that protected it. The cloth itself was beautifully embroidered in a silver thread with a hawk and lilies.

With a shudder he opened the book and continued reading where he had left off. The manuscript was in old French. Daniel had a gift with languages. He had been able to read and write in French since he was six. Even though this was an ancient version, he found he had no trouble reading it and understanding its meaning.

That was how, earlier that day, he had discovered that he was a witch.

If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that it hadn't come as a complete surprise. There had always been something different about his family. They all seemed to possess the ability to sense things before they happened, and he had had more than one dream that had come true. When his father had died a couple of years before, his mother—who had always been the strong, overbearing parent—had only become worse. She had also taken to muttering a lot and seemed to spend endless hours alone in the attic. He had surprised her up there one day, and she had hastily shoved something into an old trunk before yelling at him to get out.

That “something” was the book he now perused. The whole thing read like some twisted fairy tale. Only instead of one evil witch, there was a whole family. Their name was Deveraux, and according to the book they were warlocks instead of witches, but he had yet to figure out exactly what the distinction was.

A scratching sound outside his door made him jump. He twisted in his chair but saw only his closed door. Whatever had made the noise seemed to stop. Cautiously he turned back to the book, and a moment later he heard running footsteps in the hall.

“Very funny, Marie!” he shouted.

The scratching sound came again, and he stood up and threw the door open. The hall was empty. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and he broke out into a cold sweat. “Damn book is getting to me,” he muttered before closing the door.

Suddenly his room shook violently, throwing him to the ground, and insane laughter filled the air. Sudden, overwhelming pain seized the bones of his rib cage. He rolled over onto his back and pressed his hands against his sides. He looked up, and a small white face swam before his eyes.

“Marie?”

“Not Marie, not Marie. Only me, only me,” something answered in a singsong voice.

His vision cleared just in time to see a small green
scaly creature about a foot tall, with pointed eyes and a large sharp nose, hop on spindly legs onto his chair and with skeletal fingers slammed the book closed. It wore no clothes, and its pointed head was bald.

Then it scampered off the chair and scooted under his bed.

Daniel struggled to a sitting position, grunting in pain. He searched wildly around for a weapon, but there was nothing.

“Who are you?” he asked, speaking to the air as he scanned the room.

“Cacoph. My name, my name, oh, Daniel of the Cahors!”

“My last name is Cathers. What are you?” Daniel shouted even as he struggled to calm his mind. He crawled to the bed and raised the edge of the bedspread. Bracing for an attack, he looked under the bed.

“What kind of witch are you that you don't know an imp?” The thing—Cacoph—hissed, baring its teeth at him.

“I'm not a witch. My mother—”

Cacoph screamed and launched itself. Daniel tried to twist out of the way but Cacoph landed on his chest, grabbed hold of his shirt, and leaned in so its face was an inch away. It smelled like rotten grass.

“She dabbles, she plays. She wishes the knowledge to bring your father back from the dead. But it is not
for her. She is not a true Cahors. She is not of the blood. You are, but I won't tell you, either! I don't answer to your kind!” Cacoph ended with a shriek.

The imp slammed its fist into Daniel's injured ribs, and Daniel screamed in pain. “My master will kill you and your children and your children's children.”

“I don't have any children!” Daniel bellowed as he tried to throw Cacoph off him. It just dug its claws into him until he writhed in pain.

“No?” the thing asked, cocking its head to the side. “Then my master will kill you someday in front of your children and then will wipe out all Cahors everywhere.”

“There are no more Cahors. They all died a long time ago!”

“I think not,” the imp said, foaming at the mouth. “But they all will.”

It sunk its teeth into Daniel's shoulder, and it was as though a thousand needles were pricking and tearing at him. Suddenly he heard himself shouting in French at the top of his lungs,
“Tais toi!”

The imp's eyes went wide for a moment, and then it vanished in a cloud of smoke. Daniel dragged himself to his feet and made it to the bathroom, where he locked the door before stripping off his shirt. Blood was coating his shoulder and much of his chest, and he grunted as he tried to clean the wound.

There was a knock on the bathroom door followed by his sister's voice. “Hey, are you okay?”

He choked back a curse. He was most certainly not okay, but not for anything would he drag Marie into this world of witches and imps and insanity.

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice hesitant and an edge of fear creeping into it.

He clenched his jaw, then exhaled to steady himself. “Fine. I just tripped and banged my shoulder. I'll be okay in a couple of minutes.”

“Do you want me to get you some ice?” she asked.

He hesitated for a moment. “Yes, that would be great.”

He listened as her feet retreated down the hallway toward the stairs. She was so rarely helpful. She must have known he was hiding something.

“This is one secret you'll never get from me,” he vowed.

When she returned with the dark blue ice pack, he managed to open the door partway and accept it without revealing the jagged wounds on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said, managing a grimace.

She was trying to look inside the bathroom. “Anything else?”

“No. Just get ready for your party.”

She started to turn away, and another thought
struck him. “But when you see Mom, tell her I'd like to talk to her.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You won't tell her about Richard and me?”

“No, no, I'll leave that for you.”

“Groovy.”

By the time he had finished cleaning up and had changed clothes, there was half an hour left before guests were supposed to arrive. He tried to tell himself it hadn't happened. He'd imagined it. But the cuts on his body proved otherwise.

So he tried to force it away, compartmentalize it, save it for later. He immersed himself in the normalcy of the moment, or what passed for normalcy. Marie-Claire's birthday parties were always over the top, and this one was shaping up to be no exception. A sparkling disco ball twirled from the ceiling of their finished basement, above the portable wooden floor she'd rented. The Bee Gees were blaring through the house. Spiral glow-in-the-dark garlands hung from the rafters, and she had set out lava lamps on card tables covered with tie-dyed tablecloths and fuchsia napkins. Then she changed her shoes for ridiculous high platforms and added some sparkle to her eyes and cheeks.

While she was upstairs putting the finishing touches on her supercurled hair, he forced himself to
go through a stack of vinyl albums in the living room, hoping he could slip some Jethro Tull into her relentlessly superficial musical selections. But his hands were shaking. He thought he was going to be sick. He kept stopping and checking under the sofa, the chairs. Opening closet doors and peering inside.

Something attacked me. Something from hell.

Then his mother walked in, and he felt the tension in the room soar sky-high.

“What is it, Daniel?” she asked, her eyes hard and glittering.

She knows,
he realized.

“Should be an interesting party tonight,” he said, trying to maintain.

“Yes. Marie will no doubt have a flock of her boyfriends here.” She appeared to use the term loosely.

He set down the Jefferson Airplane record and gave her his full attention. “That bothers you?”

“They bother me. I want her to fall in love with someone who practices…” She stopped herself short and looked at him warily. He didn't know if she was trying to pull information out of him or if she'd honestly said too much.

“Practices what?” he said.

“Nothing,” his mother murmured quickly, turning away.

“Witchcraft?” he pressed.

She jerked and turned back toward him, her face pale.

“That's right. I know,” he said. “You know I can read old French.”

“Let me explain,” she said.

Inside him something felt like a wolf leaping forward for the kill. His mother never thought she had to explain herself. It was as though he could feel her fear, her weakness.

“Don't, Mom. I think it's pretty self-explanatory. You found a book about Dad's family. Now you think you're some kind of powerful witch who can
really
control your kids. Maybe even defy gravity. Or stop the aging process.”

She smiled thinly, a bit of the wolf coming out in her. “You have no idea what I can make happen.”

He rose. “Yeah, I kind of do.” He unbuttoned his shirt and showed her the bandages. “Did you send that thing into my room to stop me from reading your book?”

“Oh, my God, honey,” she gasped. “What—what—?”

Her reaction surprised him. And frightened him. If she
hadn't
sent that thing into his room, who had?

“Mom,” he said, “it's not just a book. It's dangerous. There's a reason it was lost. Stop. Stop it now.”

“Don't tell me what to do,” she retorted, sound
ing more the child than the parent. “You can't stop me practicing the Old Religion.” Her gaze traveled again to his shoulder. “Tell me again how this happened. What thing was in your room?” She thought a moment. “Was it an imp?”

“What are you going to do if you really get mad at me, conjure up something with bigger teeth?” He was quaking. “Marie!” he shouted. He had to warn her.

“Stop it,” she ground out. “She doesn't know.”

“Marie!” he yelled.

Then his mother turned and pointed at the door. “Get
out
,” she growled. “Get out or I
will
hurt you.”

Once again she was his mother, the woman who was always in control, who never backed down from anyone.

He felt himself shudder, and he wanted to back down like the good little boy he had always been. Instead he narrowed his eyes and stared deep into hers and enunciated every word.

“Stop or I'll tell her.”

“She won't believe you,” she replied, raising her chin. “Trust me on that.”

The front door opened. She was throwing him out. Fine.
Fine.

He turned and walked to the door.

That was the last time he spoke to his mother.

And as far as he knew, Marie never knew about any
of it. He heard from friends that Richard came back from Vietnam and that Richard and Marie got married. But he wasn't invited to the wedding, and after a while he almost forgot about the book, and the imp, and his own family.

Then he got married himself, and had a little girl. Named Holly.

And I loved you, baby, and I didn't want to put witchblood into your veins. I denied it; I never told you. I was so afraid, and then you started showing us your gifts. On the river trip your mother and I fought because I had never told her, either. I'm so sorry. I wanted so badly to give you a normal life that I didn't prepare you. Didn't reveal our family legacy. And then I died…

Those who love a Cahors are doomed to die by drowning, and yes, I was a witch, but I loved you so much

so much

so much

Holly…forgive me…if only I could turn back the clock.

En route to Bombay:
Holly, Armand, Pablo, Alex, and the Temple of the Air

Holly sat up with a gasp. “Daddy?”

The darkness pressed in around her, and as she came fully awake, she remembered. He was dead, drowned in the rafting trip long before she had learned who she was. He and her mother and her best friend
had been the first people she'd lost in this hellish war. For a moment, though, he had seemed so near. It was almost as though she could still smell his aftershave lingering in the air around her.

It wouldn't be the first time she had had a dream vision of him. She lay back down and tried to still her thoughts, desperate to remember something, anything, of the dream, or visitation, or whatever it had been.

Bits and pieces of it came back to her, but they didn't all make sense. After trying for several minutes, she finally got up and decided to take a short walk outside the house where they had found lodging for the evening. She stepped carefully so as not to disturb anyone else. When she reached the front door, she found it unlocked.
Someone else must be awake
.

She slipped outside and breathed in deeply of the cold, clear air. High above, the moon seemed to wink at her. She used to love staring at the moon. So much had happened, though, that it was hard to take joy in it. It just made her think of the Goddess to whom she had sacrificed so much, and who had in turn taken so many and who had eroded away parts of Holly's own soul.