The Book of Fours

  “Oh, that’s far too inconvenient,” he protested. He was mildly relieved to discover that her roommate was a man. However, she was not referring to him as “my boyfriend,” which indicated, at least to Kit, that she was unattached.

  “Non, non.” She waved her hand at the TV. “As soon as I saw this, I called him. It’s no problem, and it would be better if you got on the road as fast as possible.”

  “Indeed. I wouldn’t want to miss the tidal wave,” he quipped.

  Putting down her plate, she got up off the couch and walked him to the door, almost as if this were her home, not his. The dog skittered toward him and Cecile scooped her up, nuzzling her under the chin.

  “Please drive carefully,” she said. “And if you could give me a number where I might be able to contact you . . .”

  “Of course.” There was a small phone table next to the front door; Kit pulled out Giles’s phone number from his pocket and copied it onto the scratch pad beside the phone. He thought a moment and said, “If you have trouble with the phone lines, here’s his address. I’ll find out if he has a pager, a cell, something like that, and call you with that as well.”

  She tapped the paper, then smiled at him. “I’m resourceful. I’ll be fine. Merci.”

  He hesitated. “Before I go, I need to ask you. What happened last night? Did we contact . . . someone?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. There was a presence, and you spoke, but then you said you were dizzy and had to lie down. Pretty soon you were asleep, so I watched TV.”

  “I see. Well.” He smiled at her. “Thanks again for this. It’s awfully kind.”

  She tapped his chest once, very lightly. “You do remember the promise you made to me, do you not?”

  He flushed for real this time. “I must tell you honestly, I don’t.”

  She grinned at him. “I’ll still hold you to it, Kit Bothwell.”

  “Well.” He gave her a very polite smile. “Good-bye then.”

  “Good journey. Good driving.”

  She brushed his cheek with her lips, and to his surprise, it rather burned him. Then suddenly, a vivid memory rushed in:

  Oh, my God. I made love to her last night. He was thoroughly mortified. I didn’t even remember it until just now. And it was fantastic.

  He stared at her. “Cecile, I . . .”

  She put her fingertip against his lips. “Ah, you remember a little,” she said. She tapped his chest again. “You’ll remember everything soon. Including your promise.”

  Her laugh was like smoke. “Cameron Duvalier is the Servant now, Kit. But you could become the Servant, if you help me.”

  “What—?”

  “Allez,” she urged. “You’ll remember. Soon.”

  * * *

  Oz shouted for the nurse as Willow walked with Lucy on the Ghost Roads. Lucy said, “You can’t stay here, Willow, and I can’t come up this time. The two others must be the ones. They’re ready, but you’ll need help with the transference. And you’ll need another volunteer.”

  Willow said, “I’ll get it done.”

  Lucy took Willow’s hand. “This may be the last time we ever see each other. I don’t know what is to come, Willow, but I’m glad to have known you.” She smiled. “You’ll make a good Slayer.”

  “Thank you,” Willow said softly. Then she let herself float up, up, waving goodbye to Lucy.

  She opened her eyes, to find Oz holding her hand.

  She said, “Hi. Get Giles. Get everybody over here. We gotta get cracking with the plan.”

  Suddenly the room began to shake. Oz said, “Don’t be scared. It’s been doing that.”

  The room shook harder.

  “Okay,” Willow said uncertainly.

  “Oh, and Giles has India Cohen’s diary with some stuff Roger Zabuto sent him.”

  And harder.

  The Book of Threes

  Prologue

  The Duvalier Plantation, December 1860

  Rather than call his own father out, Cameron left the Christmas party.

  I hate him. I hate his smugness, and his stupidity. I hate him for laughing at me in front of all our guests.

  Tears of fury ran down his cheeks as he crossed the vast lawns of Oakhaven, the glitter and merriment receding behind him; the violins grew muted, overshadowed by the hooting of an owl, which echoed through the rows upon rows of oaks. Dark-skinned carriage footmen chatted with housemaids in their primitive languages and broken English; horse tack jingled.

  Cameron’s dress boots made powdery sounds as he stomped through the snow. Since he’d been dancing inside his own home, he wore neither overcoat nor hat, and his breath was steam as he half walked, half ran toward the icehouse. No one at that party had the faintest notion what was to come. War was more than fancy uniforms and white chargers, maidens waving farewell from balconies, and wives and mothers weeping sentimental tears. They all thought a conflict would last a couple of weeks at most, and then the chastened North would leave Southerners alone to live their lives as they chose. After all, America was all about freedom, wasn’t that correct?

  “Fools,” he muttered, confused how he, at seventeen, understood better than any of his elders what quicksand they were standing in. Not only did his father and younger brothers not fear the notion of a war between the states, they welcomed one, as an opportunity to take a stand for individual liberty, and to be covered in glory and honor for their courage.

  The icehouse was one of the many outbuildings on the Duvalier lands. Oakhaven, like all plantations, was a vast enterprise, which the Northerners—with their filthy factories and mills, forcing young children and innocent young ladies into servitude much worse than anything the slaves down South endured—did not seem to understand. The folks at the party reckoned that once the North understood that, they would leave them in peace.

  Cameron charged into the icehouse, which was deserted at this late hour. After sundown, the punches and buffet dishes were served hot, as was his mother’s custom, designed to ward off the chill of the snowy evening, There were no slaves heaving large blocks of ice over their shoulders with tongs, nobody making new blocks with the unexpected coming of the winter snow.

  He crossed the darkened room, which was dimly illuminated by moonlight, found and opened the door to the basement, and climbed down the stairs.

  A thin ray of light from several small rectangular windows lit up the place. In summer, all windows were covered with black shades. The towers of ice blocks were covered with straw and salt; it was colder than the air upstairs, and it smelled a bit. As to be expected.

  He pulled the keys to the sanctuary, as he had termed it, from his tight trousers, and glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder as he crept to the false brick wall he had laid himself. Realizing he should have brought a lantern, he relied on his familiarity with his own handiwork to locate the single loose brick which concealed the lock. There was a keyhole there, and he always draped a bit of straw across it to make sure no one had tried the door. He felt for the telltale straw and found it undisturbed. All was in order. No one had discovered his secret.

  With another glance around, he inserted the key until the lock caught. Slowly he opened the door, took a breath and squeezed into the space behind it, his boot on the top rung of the wooden ladder. It made him nervous to be there in the dark.

  He pulled the door shut again, making sure the lock was still open so that he could make a quick exit if it became necessary. His hand was shaking; after all this time, he was still afraid. Quickly and silently, he descended the wooden ladder.

  This was his special place. He had detected the cavern beneath the house and there had fashioned his own private quarters. Despite being a young man of privilege on a vast plantation, he rarely had a chance to be alone. For a young man like Cameron, being alone was absolutely necessary.

  It was here that the Dark Ones had first begun speaking to him, at first in whispers in his head, then later as clear, distinct voices. He had discovered that
they could communicate with him best down here, in the same place he had begun drinking alone and reading scandalous literature.

  They made him prove his mettle: first it was frogs, then birds, and small animals. Though it was rough going at first, he learned to detach so that he could do a good job and passed every test. Then they urged him to human sacrifice, and he did a fine job of it, if he did say so himself. The slaves had set up a howl about the missing girl, and it didn’t die down until one of their own was found guilty of the crime and hanged.

  After that, Cameron was more careful.

  Blessings poured in upon him for his diligence. His older brother Edward died, making Cameron the next heir to the Duvalier estate. The doctor who had taken Cameron’s parents aside after a dinner party to discuss his “grave concerns” about their son’s “personality” had suffered a terrible accident on his way home. His horse’s saddle came uncinched and the man had been thrown to his death.

  After that, Cameron became more careful still. He never permitted so much as a hint of his interior thoughts and plans to seep through an exterior of charm and affability. Though it proved exhausting, he behaved as if he were the most ordinary of men.

  In return, the Dark Ones had proven to be even more generous. Slowly and painstakingly, they had introduced him to their world of the Black Arts. They guided him in his reading, showed him where to find herbs, dirt from a grave, cobwebs, and dead things. How to make a hand of glory from a dead man.

  Their bond with him was as strong as true love. Their pact was made to teach him everything, if he would continue to worship them and feed them. In the years since that first appearance, on a frosty autumn midnight when all he had had a mind to do was drink some moonshine his daddy’s valet, Lucius, had acquired for him, and look at pictures of gals in their underthings, the Dark Ones had given him all that they had promised, and more.

  In return, he had no other gods before them, and he kept them well fed.

  Very well fed.

  Even now, a young girl’s body lay all blue and white atop a solid block of ice. If he recalled correctly, her name was Tess, and her parents wouldn’t mind the loss of a mouth to feed. When she’d slapped his face for trying to take liberties, he realized he had been tempted by her beauty because the Dark Ones wanted her.

  So he’d beaten her to death, and when darkness had fallen, lowered her down the wooden ladder with a rope around her ankles. He’d learned the hard way that bringing them down by their necks made a bad mess if their heads popped off.

  In the four years of his apprenticeship, he reckoned he had killed at least fifty females in the practice of his art. Most had been slaves. People had figured a lot of those runaways had disappeared in the swamps, or made it to freedom. Now and then, he took a poor, hardscrabble sharecropper’s girl like this one, or one of the tarts down in town. He prayed Tess was their type. He had a boon to request, the biggest one he’d every asked for, and he knew only the best, most delectable sacrifices would keep his masters happy.

  The single lantern Cameron had lit earlier in the evening was still going, hidden behind an old wooden crate. Dots of mud across the straw-covered earthen floor indicated that his masters had inspected the sacrifice. Cameron had never actually seen them consume one of the chosen, but by morning, the ice would be melted and the carcass would be gone.

  Now he knelt by the dead girl, set down the lantern, and lowered his head in an attitude of prayer.

  “My Masters,” he said reverently. “Long have I served you. And y’all have provided for my every need. But now I ask something not for myself, but for my beloved homeland. Do not let us go to war. Save the South from bloodshed.

  “I will do anything that you ask.”

  He closed his eyes and waited for their voices. After a time, he nearly despaired. Their silence was an agony down to the roots of his being.

  Then the whispering began inside his head; soon it fanned the air around him, as his gods took form in his own time and place.

  Tell us, they said. Tell us some of the things you will do to please us.

  “I will kill many, many sacrifices,” he assured them. “I will torture them.”

  Tell us how you will torture them. Tell us everything you will do.

  “All right, then,” he answered, warming to the topic. He sat back on his bottom and crossed his legs Indian style. This was permitted. “First, I’ll pick out some gal who’s so beautiful she can’t be real.”

  Choose the best. The chosen must be perfect in every way, to merit our notice.

  “Yes, my Masters. Yes, of course,” he said eagerly. He began to perspire at the thought. His hands were warm and clammy. “The most beautiful and perfect.”

  Each like a bright star. And then you will terrorize and mutilate her.

  “I’ll just cozy up to each one and pretend I want her. Y’all know how I do it.” He laughed harshly. “I swear they must realize I’m not sincere, all the struggling they do. And the insults.” He rolled his eyes.

  Of course. If they knew you meant it, they would want you. You are handsome beyond compare, sophisticated, witty, and gallant.

  “Thank you,” he said. He tried to sound modest, but it was true. And the foolish, stupid women who didn’t appreciate it deserved to die. Not that he did anything out of malice or revenge; no, no, it was to please the Dark Ones.

  For a long time, he prayed beside the lantern. He knelt alone in the dark, head bowed until it ached; and as the time passed, he heard a rustling in the straw that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.

  They’re coming out. At last, I’ll see them.

  He waited. And waited. Finally his curiosity got the better of him and he squinted one eye open.

  At seventeen, Cameron was handsome, with dark red hair and sorrel-colored eyes, a replica of his momma down to the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

  “I swear, Judeena, there’s not a drop of Duvalier blood in that boy’s likeness,” his father had once drawled, and his mother had paled.

  “Of course he’s a Duvalier,” she’d blurted.

  Shortly after that, his daddy had started creeping down to the slave shacks late of an evening. There was a lovely woman there named Cecile, and Cameron figured her for someone special, because she was always smiling. When she looked at him, she actually winked at him.

  Now, eyes were winking at him just like Cecile did.

  Hundreds of eyes, tiny and red.

  Rats covered the body.

  We are pleased, said the Dark Lords.

  Cameron fervently balled his fists and held them against his chest. His heart swelled with gratitude.

  “Then save the South. Don’t let us go to war,” he begged.

  It shall be done.

  There will be no war.

  As long as you keep feeding us.

  “Of course,” Cameron promised, as tears of relief slid down his face.

  The best. The most beautiful.

  “They’re yours. I swear it.”

  In return, we need you to renew your loyalty. Burn those who would harm us, who would defeat us in our purpose.

  “Burn . . .” Cameron said slowly.

  Then a rat scampered toward him and knocked into the lantern at his side.

  Knocked it over.

  It cracked open and perfumed oil spilled out, igniting as it trickled onto the straw, until a trail of flame began to grow like some mythic, exquisite creature—a glowworm, a magickal insect.

  Burn our enemies.

  Cameron’s eyes glazed as the flames grew higher. The rats capered and danced, shrieking with delight; their eyes glowing red as hellfire. As he stared into the flames, he saw the unfolding of his destiny, all at once. Of the South’s destiny, and the glory of the Dark Ones, hallelujah, amen.

  Start the fire tonight inside the house, when they’re all sleeping, they advised. Make sure your daddy goes up like a torch. He, of all of them, must die.

  He laug
hed at you.

  “Yes,” he said, awed by their brilliance, their clarity of purpose. Why hadn’t he thought of it on his own?

  We understand one another, then. You are ours, always ours. We will always care for you. As long as you obey every command we give you.

  “As long as I obey.”

  Feeling dizzy with anticipation, he got first to his knees, and then to his feet. The ankle-high flames from the lantern shifted as he staggered toward the ladder. Slowly he climbed upward, coughing in the intense smoke as it followed his every movement. I am their eyes. I am their ears.

  His heart thudded in his chest as he made it up to the main floor of the ice house. There was no sign of fire up here; it was all taking place below, in his private sanctuary. The melting ice would probably put it out, and no one would ever know the momentous events that had occurred there.

  Except me. I’m their acolyte. I’m the only one they can communicate with.

  I’m unique. Special.

  He left the icehouse and lurched through the snow, remembering a time long ago when his daddy had shouted, “He’s no son of mine! He’s a devil!” and he understood perfectly why the Dark Ones now demanded his father’s death. Because his daddy was right. Cameron Duvalier was not his son. He was the child of the Dark Ones, and no more loyal son had ever lived.

  Exaltation welled in his heart and he balled his fists again, resolute and fearless. His mind was fevered, imagining flames dancing along each carpet, clinging to each drapery. The oil paintings of his ancestors igniting all in a row; his grandmother, in her wheelchair.

  His mewling baby sister in her crib.

  Before this night was out, the mansion would lie in ruins, and he, and he alone, would carry the name of Duvalier.

  He smiled as he shambled forward, his gaze taking in the huge, wooden house, festooned with garlands of holly and ivy.

  “Nero fiddled while Rome burned,” he murmured. “These fools will dance in the fires of hell.”

  A movement among the snowy hedges along the walkway to the house caught his eye; it was the dark-skinned Cecile, magnificent in a crimson velvet cloak over her shoulders. Her throat was long and her face, a study in symmetry. She had a small, thin nose, and her eyes were shaped like those of a cat.