Witch & Curse Read Free

a better death,” Catherine de Cahors insisted, smiling down on her child. She petted Isabeau’s hair with one hand. In the other hand she held the bloody dagger. It was she who had carved the sigils into the man’s chest. Her husband, Robert, had felt compelled to restrain her, reminding her that torture was not apart of tonight’s rite. It was to be a good, clean execution. “His wagging tongue would have sent him to the stake eventually. He would have burned, a horrible way to die. This way . . .”
    They were interrupted by a figure wearing the silver and black livery of Cahors; he raced to the edge of the Circle and dropped to his knees directly before the masked and cloaked Robert.
Robert’s height must have given him away
, Isabeau thought.
    â€œThe Deveraux . . . the fire,” the servant gasped. “They have managed it.”
    Pandion threw back her head and shrieked in lamentation. The entire Circle looked at one another in shock from behind their animal masks. Several of them sank to their knees in despair.
    Isabeau was chilled, within and without. The Deveraux had been searching for the secret of the Black Fire for centuries. Now that they had it… what would become of the Cahors? Of anyone who stood in the way of the Deveraux?
    Isabeau’s mother covered her heart with her arms and cried, “
Alors
, Notre Dame! Protect us this night, our Lady Goddess!”
    â€œThis is a dark night,” said one of the others. “A night rife with evil. The lowest, when it was to havebeen a joyous Lammas, this man’s ripe death adding to the Harvest bounty. . . .”
    â€œWe are undone,” a cloaked woman keened. “We are doomed.”
    â€œDamn you for your cowardice,” Robert murmured in a low, dangerous voice. “We are not.”
    He tore off his mask, grabbed the dagger from his wife, and walked calmly to the sacrifice. Without a moment’s hesitation he yanked the man’s head back by the hair and cut his throat. Blood spurted, covering those nearby while others darted forward to receive the blessing. Pandion swooped down from her perch, soaring into the gushing heat, the bells on her ankles clattering with eagerness.
    Isabeau’s mother urged her toward the man’s body. “Take the blessing,” she told her daughter. “There is wild work ahead, and you must be prepared to do your part.”
    Isabeau stumbled forward, shutting her eyes, glancing away. Her mother took her chin and firmly turned her face toward the stream of steaming, crimson liquid.
    â€œNon, non,”
she protested as the blood ran into her mouth. She felt defiled, disgusted.
    The gushing blood seemed to fill her vision. . . .

    Holly woke up. As far as she could tell, she lay on the riverbank. The sound of rushing water filled her pounding head; she was shaking violently from head to toe and her teeth were chattering. She tried to move, but couldn’t tell if she succeeded. She was completely numb.
    â€œMmm . . . ,” she managed, struggling to call for her mother.
    All she heard, all she knew, was the rushing of the river. And then . . . the flapping of a bird’s wings. They sounded enormous, and in her confusion she thought it was diving for her, ready to swoop her up like a tiny, waterlogged mouse.
    Her lids flickered up at the sky; a bird did hover against the moon, a startling silhouette.
    Then she lost consciousness again. Her coldness faded, replaced by soothing warmth. . . .
    The blood is so warm
, she thought, drifting.
See how it steams in the night air
. . . .
    Again, the sound of rushing water. Again the deathly chill.
    The screech of a bird of prey . . .

    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