Resurrection by Nancy Holder Page A

stood in the back of Notre Dame and stared at all the people who had lit candles and were praying fervently in front of them, he speculated that in many ways all religions were alike. All of them left the practitioner with unanswered questions, unfound objects, and bitter disappointments to temper the joys. They also instilled in their worshippers a love of ritual. The people who knelt in prayer in front of their candles reminded him of many a night he had spent doing almost the exact same thing.
    He still wasn’t sure what he was doing inside the cathedral, or what it was he was meant to find. Still, the message had been very clear. He walked for a fewminutes, taking in the ancient stone and the sheer size of the building. Finally, with nothing better to do, he took a candle for himself, lit it, and, choosing a place somewhat away from the other supplicants, knelt before the candle, a smile twisting his lips.
    A few minutes later an older man knelt next to him. His lips moved in silent prayer, and Eli fought the urge to make his own prayers—to the Horned God—audible. It would be amusing but in the end pointless, as it would bring him no closer to finding Nicole.
    A flash of silver in the old man’s hands caught Eli’s attention. He turned his head slightly, expecting to see a rosary—but saw instead a pentagram. The man looked up and met Eli’s eyes.
    â€œThat’s a symbol of witchcraft,” Eli said mildly, purposefully choosing to call it that and not Wicca.
    â€œNot always. It was a Christian symbol for a long, long time. It represents the five wounds of Christ and the five senses of man.”
    â€œI’ve never heard such a thing.”
    â€œFew have. But where I come from, young man, there are Christians not so ignorant of their heritage. They know who they are and what they’re looking for.”
    The hair on the back of Eli’s neck lifted. Something about the old man unnerved him as nothing else hadsince he was a child. Eli knew he was a messenger, but from whom?
    The young warlock licked his suddenly dry lips. “And where is this magical place?”
    â€œBombay,” the old man said before returning to his prayers.
    Bombay. That’s where I need to go . Eli knelt a moment more before snuffing out his candle.

three
CLOVE
    Laughing now as witches die
    Deveraux power is on the rise
    Horned God sustain us and renew
    Blood feuds that are old and true
    Dancing, dancing in our minds
    Reflections of the past behind
    What secrets must now be told
    Or all is lost to waters cold
    House Moore, Scarborough: Amanda
    The corridors dripped with blood, and the walls expanded, contracted, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. It was a living thing, with a beating heart, and no one else knew. And as soon as she woke up, she would forget.
    Amanda swayed as she descended the circular stairs toward the basement, deep, deep down in the earth, where the secrets were buried, where the dangers grew in the dark like mushrooms.
    â€œAmanda, don’t come alone.” The voice was inhuman,slithery, and cold. The words formed before her like black snowflakes, then burst apart and shattered. “You know what to bring.
    â€œWhat I want.”
    Beneath her feet, the floor rippled like lizard skin…
    Amanda woke up with a jerk. Panting, she flicked on the lamp on her nightstand and cringed at the sight of the leering faces supporting the green and red canopy of her four-poster bed. The Green Man, with his intense hollow eyes and face-splitting smile, tongue extended, adorned each of the four ebony posts. The image was everywhere; was she surprised that she dreamed about Moore House night after night?
    The problem was, she couldn’t remember any of those dreams. And no one else seemed to be having them.
    She was wearing her light pink cow footie pajamas—Nicole and Owen had them too, although Owen’s were yellow—and she was glad for the extra layer of warmth as she