Resurrection by Nancy Holder Page A

said, “mon Jean, mon homme, ma vie…”
    Her smiled faded, and her face contorted with hatred. And he knew she wasn’t Holly; she was Holly’s dead ancestressIsabeau, who had sworn to kill her husband, Jean, six hundred years before.
    â€œHolly,” he said, “it’s me. It’s Jer. I’m not…Je suis Jean, et tu est ma femme, Isabeau.”
    I am Jean, and you are my woman. You are my wife, Isabeau.
    â€œThen you’ll die, too!” he screamed, grabbing her ankle. “Die with me!”
    Â 
    â€œJer, wake up,” Eve said, shaking his shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s a dream.”
    He opened his eyes. They were in their attic room in their Dover bed and breakfast. The slanted ceiling dropped at a sharp angle behind her, and the mirror bolted to the wall showed his disfigured face, twisted in a grimace.
    She was bending over him, wearing a white silk long-sleeved nightgown that looked like a medieval shift. Beneath his blankets he wore a long thermal T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. A foghorn broke the silence as he fought to bring himself under control. He heard himself panting. Wind batted the leaded diamond panes. He smelled Eve’s floral shampoo, and her body heat diffused the room’s chill…but not his unease.
    â€œDon’t be an idiot,” he snapped at her. “We’re warlocks. We can kill people in dreams.”
    â€œDid you dream that Holly killed you?” she asked. “Again?”
    Jer didn’t answer. Stonily he lifted the covers off himself, forcing her to straighten and step back. He didn’t want Eve comforting him. Or pretending to.
    There were two single beds in the rustic wood-and-plaster room; at his request they had pushed them apart, placing a nightstand between them. He noted her laptop on her bed, and the blue glow of the screen. He wondered if she had contacted the Supreme Coven to tell them that they were on the move again. She had sworn not to reveal their location while they traveled together, but when had the word of a warlock ever meant anything?
    â€œWould you like some tea?” she asked him, gesturing to the electric kettle the B&B had provided.
    â€œYou Brits. You think you can solve everything with tea.” He didn’t care that she looked hurt.
    â€œI’ve left the Coven,” she said, gesturing to the laptop.
    He laughed harshly. “What did you do, send them a letter of resignation?”
    â€œNow who’s being an idiot? Do you think I want an assassin coming after me?”
    She led him over to the computer and turned it around so that he could see the screen. An e-mail message was open, front and center over a few otherwindows, including a picture of a black cat. Warlocks didn’t have familiars. Maybe it was just a pet.
    The message read:
    If you find either of the Deveraux brothers, assure them they are welcome. The Moore regime has ended, and they did us a favor in ridding us of their father, Michael Deveraux, as well.
    â€”Bryson Saracenz, for the Supreme Coven
    Jer read without comment. He didn’t know what to think. He had spent many long months leading his own coven, the Rebel Coven, and he was sure he had operated beneath the Supreme Coven’s radar. If they had even heard of the Rebel Coven’s existence, they probably (and rightly) had assumed he had formed the Circle to rebel against his father.
    Now he was the only survivor. His heart spared a moment for Kari Hardwicke, who had died in the attack on the Supreme Coven. She should never have been a covenate. He’d known it all along, but she’d dazzled him. She’d been a sexy “older woman”—a grad student—as brilliant as she was tenacious. He’d let go of her way before Holly, but he knew Kari had thought that Holly had stolen him away.
    â€œMaybe I should look for Holly,” he said. “Instead of Eli.”
    â€œNo,” Eve said quickly.