Witch & Curse by Nancy Holder, Debbie Viguié

missed Lammas ritual, his brother and father, school assignments, Kari, what his life would become after college . . . every concern seemed a distant, odd object that he firmly discarded, clearing his mind of clutter and debris.
    The fire appeared to grow larger, the rocks more like small boulders; the flames those of a bonfire; the logs were felled trees. As he stared, the smoke whirled and eddied into shapes alien to his culture, more Eddie’s and Kialish’s totems and icons than his—salmonand orcas and strangely clawed bears. Ravens flew everywhere, and other birds joined them, wheeling in a sky boiling with fire and smoke. Falcons skyrocketed toward the moon, joined by hawks. The ravens wheeled around the other birds as falcon and hawk squared off, each rushing toward the other, screaming through clacking beaks, wings flapping.
Whum, whum, whum
; the smoky sky vibrated with their great wings’ beats.
    Whum whum whum . . .
    He became aware that his heartbeats matched the rhythm of the wings; and then the sound changed and became what sounded like the beating of a skinheaded drum:
Brum, brum, brum . . .
    . . . and Jer was somewhere else, very different from the lodge; and he was some
one
else, someone not so very different from himself . . . someone named Jean, who was a Deveraux, like him. . . .
    The drummers sounded as the Great Hunt trooped through the forest; the rounded, ringing tones reminded Jean of the drumming that preceded an important execution. Dirgelike and purposeful, relentless . . .
death comes for all us, but at this moment we are Death’s army
, he thought with amusement.
    He was riding Cockerel, his favorite warhorse, atthe head of a phalanx of Hunters. Fantasme, the Circle’s falcon familiar, rode on his shoulder like an eager little brother, screeching for his dinner.
    The drummers marched on foot several meters ahead. All in all, a glorious sight, the Deveraux on the move through the Greenwood, home of the God in his aspect as King of Nature and of the Hunt. Green and red livery, fine ermine robes, crimson jewels and fine golden cloaks from the Holy Land gleamed and flashed and sparkled beneath the smile of the sun.
    Swelling with pride, Jean signaled to the flushers to continue their work. With large wooden canes, they smacked the forest undergrowth, easily driving out the foxes, ermine, bears, and other game, which Jean and the others would happily slaughter, spurs to the flanks of their mounts, swords and hatchets drawn and dripping with gore and blood.
    They had been routing out the animals for hours, with great success. Behind the lines of noblemen, servants loaded the carcasses of the animals routed thus far; the scent of blood was intoxicating to the clusters of hunting hounds that strained at their leads beside and around the tumbrels. Their eagerness and bloodlust matched the men’s own.
    Jean’s father, the Duc Laurent de Deveraux, trotted up beside his son and smiled broadly at him.He tipped his head, swathed in fine velvet and a golden tassel, to Fantasme, who screeched in reply. Laurent was dressed in hunting finery of ermine and leather. Jean was a younger version of the great lord of the manor—flashing, dark eyes and heavy brows, an abundance of dark, shiny hair and beard. Their noses were quite straight, their mouths strong, not too fleshy. Deveraux faces were hard and sharp. Deveraux faces promised no mercy, no tenderness, no warmth. They were warriors’ faces. Leaders’ faces. Some said devils’ faces . . .
    â€œWe’ll have a magnificent feast,” the Duke said approvingly, gesturing with his head over his shoulder at the huge amount of game they had harvested. “We’ll show those posturing Cahors how real men make a wedding banquet.”
    Jean smiled proudly at his father. “And make a wedding bed as well.”
    The two laughed lustily. The Duke clapped his son on his shoulder and said, “In the old days of