Witch & Curse (8 page)

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?