The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

He tried to stand freely and to bend down to kiss her. She caught him and steadied him as his lips closed over hers, and that same powerful sensual shock passed through her that had always come with his touch.

"Rowan," he moaned aloud, crushing her against him, then slipping backwards until she brought him up short again in her arms.

"Come, we haven't much time," she said. "We have to find some place safe, some place completely unknown ... "

"Yes, darling, yes ... but you see it's all so new and so beautiful. Let me hold you again, let me kiss you ... "

"There isn't time," she said, but the silken baby lips had clamped on hers again, and she felt his cock pressing against her sex, pressing into the soreness. She pulled away, drawing him after her.

"That's it," she said, watching his feet, "don't think about it. Just look at me and walk."

For one second, as she found herself in the doorway, as she was conscious of its keyhole shape, and the old discussions of its significance, all the misery and beauty of her life passed before her eyes, all her struggles and all former vows.

But this was a new door all right. It was the door she'd glimpsed a million years ago in her girlhood when she'd first opened the magical volumes of scientific lore. And it was open now, quite beyond the horrors of Lemle's laboratory, and the Dutchmen gathered around the table in a mythical Leiden.

She guided him slowly through the door and up the stairs, walking patiently, step by step, at his side.

Fifty-two

HE WAS TRYING to wake up, but every time he came near the surface, he went down again, heavy and drowsy and sinking into the soft feathery covers of the bed. The desperation would grip him and then it would go away.

It was the sickness that finally woke him. It seemed forever that he sat on the bathroom floor, against the door, vomiting so violently that a pain locked around his ribs each time he retched. Then there was nothing more to heave up, and the nausea just lay on him with no promise of relief.

The room was tilting. They had finally got the lock off the door, and they were picking him up. He wanted to say that he was sorry he'd locked it, reflex action, and he had been trying to get to the knob to open the door, but he couldn't make the words come out.

Midnight. He saw the dial of the clock on the dresser. Midnight of Christmas Eve. And he struggled to say mere was a meaning to it, but it was impossible to do more than think of that thing standing behind the crib in the sanctuary. And he was sinking again, as his head hit the pillow.

When next he opened his eyes, the doctor was talking to him again, but he couldn't recall just when he'd seen the doctor before. "Mr. Curry, do you have any idea what might have been in the injection?"

No. I thought she was killing me. I thought I was going to die. Just trying to move his lips made him sick. He only shook his head, and that too made him sick. He could see the blackness of night still beyond the frost on the windows.

" ... at least another eight hours," said the doctor.

"Sleep, Michael. Don't worry now. Sleep."

"Everything else normal. Clear liquids if he should ask for something to drink. If there's the slightest change ... "

Treacherous witch. Everything destroyed. The man smiling at him from above the crib. Of course it had been the time. The very time. He knew that he had lost her forever. Midnight Mass was over. His mother was crying because his father was dead. Nothing will ever be the same now.

"Just sleep it off. We're here with you."

I've failed. I didn't stop him. I've lost her forever.

"How long have I been here?"

"Since yesterday evening."

Christmas morning. He was staring out the window, afraid to move for fear of being sick again. "It's not snowing anymore, is it?" he said. He barely heard the answer, that it had stopped some time before daybreak.

He forced himself to sit up. Nothing as bad as before. A headache yes, and a little blur to his vision. Nothing worse than a hangover.

"Wait, Mr. Curry. Please. Let me call Aaron. The doctor will want to see you."

"Yeah, that would be fine, but I'm getting dressed."

All his clothes were in the closet. Nice little traveler's kit under plastic on the bathroom vanity. He showered, fighting an occasional bout of dizziness, shaved recklessly and fast with the little throwaway, and then came out of the bathroom. He wanted to sink down into the bed again, no doubt about it, but he said:

"I gotta go back there, find out what went down."

"I'm begging you to wait," said Aaron, "to take some food, see how you feel."

"Doesn't matter how I feel. Can you give me a car? I'll hitch if you can't."

He looked out the window. Snow still on the ground. Roads would be dangerous. Had to go now.

"Look, I can't thank you enough for taking care of me like this."

"What do you mean to do? You don't have any idea what you'll find. Last night she told me that if I cared about you, to see that you didn't come back."

"Hell with what she said. I'm going."

"Then I'm going too."

"No, you stay here. This is between me and her. Get me a car, now, I'm leaving."

It was a big bulky gray Lincoln Town Car, hardly his choice though the soft leather seat felt good, and the thing really cruised when he finally reached the interstate highway. Up until that point, Aaron had been following in the limo. But there was no sight of him now, as Michael passed one car after another.

The snow was dirty at the sides of the road. But the ice was gone. And the sky above was that faultless mocking blue which made everything look clean and wide open. The headache gripped him, throwing a curve of dizziness and nausea at him every fifteen minutes. He just shook it off, and kept his foot on the gas pedal.

He was going ninety when he cruised into New Orleans, going up past the cemeteries of Metairie and through the rooftops and then past the ludicrous surreal spectacle of the Superdome amphitheater, like a space saucer just touching down amid skyscrapers and church steeples.

&

nbsp; He braked too fast, nearly skidding as he took the St. Charles Avenue turnoff. Traffic crawled amid the frozen strips of soiled snow.

Within five minutes, he made the left turn onto First, and then the car skidded dangerously again. He braked and crept his way over the slick asphalt, until he saw the house rising up like a somber fortress on its dark, shady snow-covered corner.

The gate was open. He put his key into the front door and let himself in.

For a moment, he stood stock-still. There was blood all over the floor, smeared and streaked, and the bloody print of a hand on the door frame. Something that looked like soot covered the walls, thinning out to a pale grime as it reached the ceiling.

The smell was foul, like the smell of the sickroom in which Deirdre died.

Smears of blood on the doorway to the living room. Tracks of bare feet. Blood all over the Chinese carpet, and some viscous mucuslike substance smeared on the boards, and the Christmas tree with all its lights burning, like an oblivious sentinel at the end of the room, a blind and dumb witness who could testify to nothing.

The ache was exploding in his head, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest, and the rapid knocking in his heart. The adrenaline was flooding his veins. And his right hand was curling convulsively into a fist.

He turned around, went out of the parlor and into the hall, and headed towards the dining room.

Without a sound, a figure stepped into the high keyhole door, peering at him, one slender hand moving up on the door frame.

It was a strange gesture. Something distinctly unsteady about the figure as if it too were reeling from shocks, and as it came forward into the light from the sun porch, Michael stopped, studying it, straining to understand what he was seeing.

This was a man, clothed in loose disheveled pants and shirt, but Michael had never seen a man like him. The man was very tall, maybe six feet two inches in height and disproportionately slender. The pants were too large, and apparently cinched tight at the waist, and the shirt was Michael's shirt, an old sweatshirt. It hung like a tunic on the slender frame. He had rich black curly hair and very large blue eyes, but otherwise he resembled Rowan. It was like looking at a male twin of Rowan! The skin was like Rowan's smooth and youthful skin, only even more youthful than that, stretching over Rowan's cheekbones, and this was almost Rowan's mouth, just a little fuller, and more sensuous. And the eyes, though large and blue, had Rowan in them, and there was Rowan in the man's sudden thin, cold smile.