Part 46 (2/2)

Then once more Holly saw the hot, steaming blood-and something new: a vile, acrid odor that reeked of charnel houses and dungeon terrors. Something very evil, very wrong, very hungry crept toward her, unfurling slowly, like fingers of mist seeking her out, sneaking over branch and rock to find her wrist, encircle it, enclose it.

Someone-or something-whispered low and deep and seductively, ”I claim thee, Isabeau Cahors, by night and Barley Moon. Thou art mine.”

And from the darkness above the circle a ma.s.sive falcon dove straight for Pandion, its talons and beak flas.h.i.+ng and savage . . . .

”No!” Holly cried into the darkness.

A bird's wings flapped, then were still.

She was s.h.i.+vering with cold; and she was alive.

A brilliant yellow light struck her full force in the face. Holly whimpered as the light moved, bobbing up and down, then lowered as the figure holding it squatted and peered at her.

It was a heavyset woman dressed like a forest ranger. She said, ”It's okay, honey, we're here now.” Over her shoulder, she yelled, ”Found a survivor!”

A ragged cheer rose up, and Holly burst into frightened, desperate tears.

Seattle, Was.h.i.+ngton, Lammas Kari Hardwicke had wrapped herself in a simple, cream-colored robe of lightweight gauze that was totally see-through and that clung everywhere. In her slashed blond hair she had entwined a few wildflowers, and she had bronzed her cheeks and shoulders. Her feet were bare and she had dabbed patchouli oil in all the strategic places.

Spellcasters loved patchouli oil.

Now she curled herself around Jer Deveraux as he brooded silently before her fireplace. He had burst through her door with the storm, fierce and enraged, but he wouldn't tell her what was wrong. He had accepted the gla.s.s of cab she offered him and drawn up her leather chair before her fireplace. He sipped, and he fell silent, his dark eyes practically igniting the logs in the fireplace.

h.e.l.l hath no fury like Jeraud Deveraux when he's in a temper.

That made her want him all the more. There was something about Jer she couldn't explain. It wasn't simply his air of command, as if he could make one do his slightest bidding merely by raising one eyebrow. Nor was it his sharp wit, or his drive; the pull he had on almost everyone who knew him; the way he fascinated people, both men and women, who would fall to discussing him once he had left a room.

It was all that combined with his astonis.h.i.+ng looks. His brown-black eyes were set deep into his face beneath dark brown eyebrows. His features were sharply defined, his cheekbones high above hollows shaded by the soft light in the room. Unlike his father and his brother, he was clean shaven; his jaw was sharp and angular, and his lips looked soft. He worked out, and it showed in his broad shoulders, covered for the moment by a black sweater. Like his family members, he wore black nearly all the time, adding to his allure of danger and sensuality.

But it's even more that that, Kari thought now. He's . . . how does the old song go?

A magic man.

Heavy rain rattled the dormer window of her funky student apartment; the storm matched his mood, but she was determined to shake him out of it. It was Lammastide, the witches' harvest night, and she knew he would leave in a while to go perform some kind of ritual with Eli, his brother, and Michael, his father. They were ”observant,” as he liked to phrase it ... and she wanted him to take her with him tonight. She wanted to know what they did in secret. Their rites, their spells . . . all of it.

The Deveraux men are warlocks, she thought.

But use that word in front of Jer, and he would deny it.

In the early days of their relations.h.i.+p-a year ago, now, how it had flown!-he had been eager to bring her into the fold. Back then, he was his teaching a.s.sistant, and he, a newbie undergrad; after the first time they'd gone to bed together, he had told her he would share his ”mysteries” with her. He had hinted about an ancient family Book of Spells.

She was thrilled. She was getting her PhD in folklore, a path she had chosen so that she could investigate magic and shamanism with the full resources of the university behind her. The University of Was.h.i.+ngton at Seattle treated Native American belief systems with the utmost respect; thus, her field of endeavor was encouraged, and never challenged.

But it wasn't simply Northwestern magic that interested her. She was fascinated by European magic . . . especially black magic. And though, like being a bona fide warlock he denied that his family practiced the Dark Art, she was fairly certain they spent more time in the shadows than they did in the diffuse light of Wicca. Yet she maintained the fiction that he practiced one of the Wicca traditions; it was what he had told her.

”I've dressed like the Barley Maid,” she said now, moving between him and the fireplace and stretching out her arms to him. He looked startled and-she hated to admit it-irritated by her interruption of his reverie.

Jer, you loved me once, she thought anxiously. You were thrilled that a glamorous ”older woman” graduate student wanted you, a mere freshman. What did I do wrong?

I want you to come back to me. Not just treading water with me, but back into the deluge, the flood that was all that pa.s.sion you poured into me. We made such waves . . . we drowned in such amazing ecstasy . . . .

”I've read that if we make love tonight, whatever spells we cast will be extra powerful.” She smiled l.u.s.tily.

”That's true,” he said, giving her that much. His smile was gentle, tinged with both sadness and great wisdom. ”And you've cast quite a spell on me, Kari. You're beautiful.”

She let herself believe he was sincere, and he rose from his chair, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her into her bedroom.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS.

NANCY HOLDER has published more than seventy-eight books, including novels and episode guide books about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel for Simon Pulse. She has received five Bram Stoker awards for her supernatural fiction and is the coauthor of the New York Times bestselling Wicked series. She lives in San Diego with her daughter, Belle, their two cats, and their two Corgis. Visit her at nancyholder.com.

DEBBIE VIGUIe is the coauthor of the New York Times bestselling Wicked series and several additional Simon Pulse books, including the Once upon a Time novels Violet Eyes and Midnight Pearls. She lives in Florida with her husband, Scott, and their cat, Schrodinger. Visit her at debbieviguie.com.

Read the Crusade trilogy:.

Crusade.

d.a.m.ned.

Vanquished.

Also by Nancy Holder.

and Debbie Viguie.

Wicked.

Witch & Curse.

Wicked 2.

Legacy & Spellbound.

Resurrection.

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