Vanquished. Part 7

Some argued that the code had been transcribed improperly, and that the true words were these: "An it harm none, do what thou must."

She would protect the world. She must.

And when she had shed her last tear, she tumbled down onto the earth and closed her eyes. Mist-or maybe dreams-rose around her, and she could almost see Holgar's face. Almost hear his voice murmuring, Skye, merrily met.

Then she realized that someone was talking to her. She opened her eyes. There, standing over her, were her old friends Soleil and Lune, their palms extended toward her. Soleil had grown; she was nearly as tall as Lune now. Both looked much older than when they had last met.

Skye didn't know why, but she felt no surprise at seeing them, just sudden, overwhelming gladness. She rose.

"It's about time," Soleil said softly.

"The Circuit welcomes a sister," Lune murmured.

They raised their left hands-the hand of magick. In each palm was a henna pentagram. Then Skye's sisters in the Art pressed their left palms against each of Skye's bleeding hands and threw their arms around her, and the healing began to take place.

Soleil and Lune wouldn't tell Skye exactly how they had found her, saying only that "a friend" had alerted them that she was in England. They had cast a finder's spell to pinpoint her location. Skye wondered if that friend was Melody, or Summer's husband.

The two gave her a chance to wash up in the bathroom of a pub, then fed her a savory mushroom pie. Lune had brought her a change of clothes; Skye dressed in a pair of brown leggings, an olive pleated miniskirt, and a cream-colored sweater. Everything was a little loose on her, but Skye rather liked Lune's choice of earth tones. Soleil wore jeans and a ruffled yellow blouse, befitting her name, which meant "sun."

Then they drove her to the beautiful castle of Leeds. Part of the castle was built on land, and part extended into a lakelike moat. It was after hours, and all the tourists had left. The three crept to the water's edge, where a small white rowboat waited, and Soleil and Lune guided the boat with magicks onto the water, using no oars to power it. A small, arched gate provided them entrance. They glided in, climbed out, and pulled the boat onto a stone landing.

"So this is the headquarters of the Circuit?" Skye whispered as they went through a small door and up a narrow, circular staircase.

"Just one of many," Lune replied.

"Did you know that a medieval princess, Joan of Navarre, was imprisoned here for using witchcraft? Her magicks have soaked into the stone. Do you feel them?" Soleil asked as they entered a gently illuminated room.

Skye nodded. Deep, powerful vibrations were thrumming through her. A statue of the Virgin Mary crushed a serpent beneath her feet. What had been lost to White magick was that the Lady had taken evil on, and won. The Mother had not stayed neutral, and Skye now believed-no, she knew-that in the battle to come, the G.o.ddess would actively fight.

A single candle glowed on a table in front of the three, and she focused on the light. The Circuit was a loose alliance of witches who had decided that going underground was the wrong choice in a world gone mad. Skye had been in and out of contact with them for a while, but she wasn't an actual member. She was a hunter, and they viewed her hunting team as her coven. Skye couldn't help but smile slightly as she wondered what Jamie would have to say about that.

"We'll be back soon," Lune told her, as the two disappeared through a door. A few minutes later they reappeared in long white hooded robes embroidered with silver crescents and golden pentagrams. Lune carried an identical robe in her arms.

"They'll see you now," Lune said. "Put this on."

Together Soleil and Lune helped Skye into the heavy robe. Her friends raised their hoods over their hair; Skye did the same, and followed them slowly across the threshold.

Six or seven hooded women ringed the stone altar, which was covered with pink roses, rose quartz, and five white candles arranged in a pentagram. An illuminated Book of Spells lay open before a statue of Diana, G.o.ddess of the Hunt. Her bow was notched with an arrow; the string was pulled back tightly. Diana had sighted her quarry.

The High Priestess spread her arms in greeting. The woman's papery skin was heavily lined, but her bright blue eyes crackled with energy. She regarded Skye for a moment. A charge skittered down Skye's spine, and she felt as if the other witch were reading her soul.

"Skye of Salamanca, blessed be," the High Priestess said.

"Blessed be," the other witches-including Soleil and Lune-echoed.

"Blessed be," Skye said. "Merrily met."

The High Priestess shook her head. "Not merrily, little one." She waved her hand above the altar. A clutch of carved stones materialized in front of the Book of Spells. "The runes have been cast thirteen times thirteen for the last fortnight."

"What do they foretell?" Skye asked, gazing at them.

A deep sigh echoed throughout the room. It seemed to Skye that, in the flickering flames, the statue of Diana raised her bow slightly, as if to refine her aim.

Then the statue loosed her arrow, and it arced toward the ceiling. A shower of bright white stars burst into flame, then a.s.sumed a shape- The shape of a bat.

Then larger stars appeared, exploded, and formed a larger bat that consumed the smaller.

"The Vampire Nation will fall. And the Vampire Kingdom will rise," said the High Priestess. "Every human death, every vampire victory-these are merely portents for what is to come later. And it will be worse."

"So we have to stop it," Skye said. She looked at the hooded women. "We have to stop it now!" Her voice came out as a bellow, and echoed against the stones. The torches flickered. And a low wind wound its way through the room.

She hunched her shoulders, cringing at the way she had just spoken to the High Priestess. She was about to apologize, when the old woman spoke again.

"We have a question," the High Priestess said. "And you are here to help us answer it."

"Me?" Skye said. "How?" But she had a feeling that she already knew the answer.

"We here have worked in secret, behind the scenes. We've seen much, but not all. But you have been on the front line of this war."

"You've been a symbol of inspiration," said one of the other witches.

"Or d.a.m.nation," said another.

"We've cast spells to strengthen and protect humanity. But we must use our magick to fight shoulder to shoulder with humanity," said a third.

"An thou harm none," a fourth argued.

Skye flared with irritation. "I'm sorry, but this is a war. The only way to win against the vampires is to kill them. There can be no peace."

"A truce," someone said. "A truce with Solomon, and then-"

"Crikey, are you mad?" Skye cried. "The vampires want to destroy us, and we cannot let that happen. You've been working behind the scenes, but the time for that is past."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," the High Priestess said. "The Cursed Ones wage war against the nonmagickal, not us."

And there it was, the arrogance, the denial, and the fear that allowed people to stand by and do nothing while others were slaughtered. It doesn't concern me.

Skye had spoken to Antonio many times about his experiences during World War II. Millions had been murdered because people thought Adolf Hitler could be reasoned with, bargained with. But bombs had fallen on Britain, and still nation upon nation stood by, because their countries hadn't been attacked. Let Hitler kill the Jews and the Gypsies; what concern was it to them? And now Skye's people, the witches, were willing to sacrifice nonwitch humanity because they believed that the Cursed Ones wouldn't come after them.

"It won't end with ordinary humans," Skye said. "The vampires fear us and our powers. But that won't stop them from wiping us out too."

"Not everyone believes that," the High Priestess replied.

Raw fury coursed through Skye's veins like blood. "Then believe this. Even if the vampires kill every mundane man, woman, and child, they'll still need to feed. And we, and the werewolves, will be the only ones left. Everyone knows that werewolves fight back, so who do you think they're going to look to for blood?"

The High Priestess nodded. Her face was grim, her lips pursed tightly. "Well said, Sister York. You are young, pa.s.sionate, and eloquent. You must persuade us all to join this war."

Moments later, blurry images of men and women began to appear in the room, some wearing robes, some ordinary street clothes. They were pale, ghostlike in their transparency.

"Circuit members," the High Priestess explained. "Those who can't be with us in body are traveling here in spirit so that we all might decide on our course of action together."

Around the room, hundreds of astral projections appeared. Witches from every corner of the globe stared at Skye, waiting to hear her argument for war.

Skye's palms began to sweat. The fate of the world hung on what she said next.

DOVER, ENGLAND.

ESTEFAN AND HIS COVEN BROTHERS FROM CADIZ.

Estefan's three coven brothers arrived in a thunderstorm. Platinum-colored lightning struck the ground as they stepped from the ferry. Other travelers dodged the rain. But Estefan welcomed the icy downpour. It cooled his superheated anger and the burns Skye had left like the mark of a slap on his face. He wore a glamour to hide the injuries. As his coven brothers embraced him and kissed his cheek, none of them saw the damage a mere girl-and a White Witch at that-had inflicted on him.

"Hermanos," he said. Brothers. "Thank you for coming." Then he snapped his fingers, and the rains parted in their path.

They walked through the storm, dry as bones. Dark magick-Black magick-sizzled around them, colliding with the lightning and shaking the gray sky like a box of broken mirrors. Estefan's mind kept turning to Skye. It was not long ago that he had imprisoned her in a fun house of her memories. Such joy he'd felt watching her flail in mindless terror like a little sparrow struggling to escape a cage.

And now, days ago, she had escaped.

I didn't realize how much she'd grown since she left me, he thought. How strong she's become.

His brothers trailing slightly behind him, Estefan allowed the glamour to drop away completely. He knew what he looked like. His face was purple and white with scars, and his eyes were completely black except for two small circles of crimson at their centers. His eyeteeth lengthened and sharpened like vampire fangs. But when he bit someone, it wasn't the blood he was after. He wasn't even sure what it was he took. A piece of their soul? Their life essence?

He didn't know, but he was fascinated by it. He'd partic.i.p.ated in the h.e.l.l Fire Caves gatherings, where eager young Cursed Ones, dazzled by magicks, had mingled with witches both White and Dark. The witches had enchanted the blood from the Cursed Ones' veins, and the vampires had drunk it from goblets, savoring the unusual, otherworldly taste of the magick. Then they'd offered it to the witches, too. Estefan had eagerly swallowed the strange sweetness.

After he'd met Skye, he'd taken her with him to the revels. It had required a trance to get her to partic.i.p.ate. But one night she'd snapped awake, and she'd set him on fire in an attempt to flee.

She went to Spain, and so did he-leaving with one of his vampire companions to join Aurora's court-not in hopes of becoming a Cursed One but to discover what made them so strong and immortal. He studied mixtures of magick and vampiric blood, but drew no conclusions. He tried to discuss it with Aurora, but she was a bit of a disappointment in that regard. She had no curiosity about what made vampires tick.

However, her lover, Sergio Almodovar, was another matter. Sergio owned an amazing Book of Spells, compiled by a vampire interested in magick. It included spells of power and transformation-magicks too strong for Estefan to master.

At first.

Aurora had stolen the book from Sergio, not because she wanted it but because she knew it would enrage him. It was a trophy the two of them fought over during their spats, which had apparently been going on for decades if not centuries. So Estefan stayed in Aurora's court, perusing the black-and-maroon leather book whenever possible. He dedicated himself to working these strange new magicks, confused about why, if he had drunk vampire blood, he hadn't been transformed into one. It was his magicks, he decided, that somehow protected him. And made him different enough, he figured, to withstand any magicks that little White b.i.t.c.h leveled at him.

He had never forgotten the agony of the fire she had flung at him that first time in the caves, nor the ridicule of his coven brothers for being dumped by a little fourteen-year-old. And so he worked his magicks.

Then Antonio de la Cruz killed Sergio at the battle of Salamanca, and Skye was there too. The timing was perfect; Estefan had enough power for payback-or so he had thought. Little Skye had surprised him.

He had lost access to Sergio's Book of Spells, but with his coven brothers back in England, and all the changes he'd gone through to make himself more powerful, more like a Cursed One, he was certain he could track her down.

And make her scream until she died.

LAKE COMO, ITALY.

AURORA, LUCIFER, AND DANTALION.

Aurora wrapped her furs around herself, not because she was cold, but because ermine contrasted so beautifully with her black hair, and because she had no one to hold on to as she made her grand entrance into the great hall of her sire's villa on Lake Como.

The walls were covered with weapons from eons of warfare, and black velvet drapes were looped back from the magnificent windows overlooking the water. They would be closed soon, to block out the rising sun.

Lucifer rose from a carved chair at the far end of the room and came to her. He was wearing a perfectly tailored white suit in honor of Sergio, and with his mane of white hair and piercing red eyes, he was startlingly attractive. Yes, Sergio had been Aurora's lover, but Lucifer was her morning star. There was no vampire more magnificent. Nor more terrifying.

He took her in his arms and held her. Trembling, she melted against him. He held her more tightly. Panic flared within her. She cleared her throat.

"Please, master," she said in Spanish as she pulled back. "I'll cry b.l.o.o.d.y tears all over your suit."

He smiled softly at her, then reached his long nails and sliced his suit jacket from the lapel down to the waist. She realized he was rending his garments, as she had done at Sergio's funeral. She felt a fresh ripple of uneasiness. Had Lucifer been present at the ceremony without telling her? Had he had a camera or a scrying stone to spy on her?

Did he know that she had taken Antonio de la Cruz captive in Las Vegas, then lost him? And if he did know, what would he do to her?

"Ay, Lucifer," she blurted, dropping into a curtsey out of habit. Back in the fifteenth century, when he had saved her from the Inquisition, women bowed to great lords.

"Pobrecita," he said. Poor little one. "Sergio was a prince among us, and you know how much he loved you."

"Si."

With shaking hands she reached into the cuff of her coat and produced a white silk handkerchief. She daubed her eyes, seeing the flecks of blood, and was about to put it away when Lucifer took it from her and dropped it lazily to the floor.

There was a snorting and a panting, and then a beautiful wolfhound appeared. It caught up the handkerchief and galloped across the floor, bringing it to a figure standing in the shadows. Aurora's blood froze. The hound had belonged to the Russian vampire, Dantalion, who had spent his days trying to genetically engineer the perfect soldier and whose monstrous hybrids she had killed back in Russia for sport. She hadn't realized he was here at the villa . . . and clearly a guest of her sire.

"Aurora," Dantalion said, moving from the darkness.

"Dantalion," she replied, standing tall and proud.

"My condolences on your loss," Dantalion said with a heavy Russian accent. "Sergio was a jewel in the crown of the Vampire Kingdom."

Her throat constricted by fear, Aurora mutely nodded. Dantalion had still been burrowed inside his Russian laboratory when she had captured Antonio on its poisoned grounds. Did Dantalion know that she'd been there for nights before seizing Antonio, picking off Dantalion's beloved experiments for sport? Reducing the ranks of his monstrous hybrids so that when the hunters and the men with black crosses attacked him, his defenses had been severely weakened?

Did he know that she had found his creations so repulsive she hadn't even told Lucifer about them? And now it appeared that Lucifer had not only known about them, but was helping Dantalion fund the supersoldier project.

"We'll cheer you up," Lucifer told her, also speaking in English. He kissed Aurora's cheek, then clapped Dantalion on the shoulder. "Dantalion has been very busy, and he's got wonderful news for us."