Read Online Resurrection by Nancy Holder - Free Book Online

could use it to discover what had happened to Philippe, she would. Which was one of the few good arguments she could make for staying in the house.
    Her flashlight beam played over the ancestral portraits of the Moore family, many of them centuries old. A frisson of anxiety shot up her spine at the sight of so many evil warlocks, male and female, staring down at her. Conjuring a sphere of light to chase away the shadows would cost—magic always had a price—and many of the sections of the centuries-old houseweren’t wired for electricity. If they stayed, they would have to do something about that.
    She stopped at the landing and studied the circular staircase. There had been stairs in her dream. She remembered that much.
    She gritted her teeth and went down the stairs to the main floor, where heavy brocade curtains kept out the dawn. Defiantly she pulled them open, and gazed out at the gardens of the house. Topiary trees shaped like falcons and lions posed against a vast field of browned grass and mazes of privet hedges. A marble statue of Pan, an aspect of the Horned God, held a set of faun’s pipes to his mouth. Water trickled from the pipes into a reflecting pool, where, despite the cold weather, water lilies floated.
    Where was Sir William now? Did the demon he had become retain his personality? Would he be back?
    Amanda crossed the great room in the dark, deliberately avoiding the suits of armor standing at attention, the mosaic-like displays of weaponry covering the walls. The Moores’ past was England’s past, where might made right—hundreds of battles won and fought, for land, honor, and power.
    That’s still going on, she thought as she finally reached her destination, the kitchen. She found the light switch and flicked it, revealing a luxurious blend of old and new: marble floors and stone arches encasing finemahogany cabinets, granite countertops, and the latest in appliances.
    She set the box with the dream catcher down beside the stove and selected a shiny copper pot from the hanging profusion above her head. She filled it with blessed water and added salt, putting it on to boil over the gas. Then she turned on the electric kettle to make tea.
    Once the water on the stove had begun to bubble, she wafted the dream catcher over the water and chanted in Latin, “Reveal to me, all that I see; unravel the seams of my dreams.”
    She pulled out of a drawer a plain five-by-seven notebook she had bought in the village grocery store, and flipped open to a new page, which she dated August 1. She grabbed up an equally nondescript pen and held it over the paper, waiting for images to materialize and rise from the gossamer threads. First came the blurry faces of Tommy and the others, as she had expected; she always dreamed about them. Next a few random memories of the day—sweeping a floor, making a grilled cheese sandwich, and playing with Owen.
    And at last, fillips of nonsensical images that she prayed held the keys to her nightmares, and the house:
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    a lily—symbol of the three Ladies of the Lily—she, Nicole, and Holly
    a hulking black demon with fangs of burningembers and black reptilian eyes—Sir William? His dead son, James?
    a crystal key—hmm, white magic? A revelation?
    a rabbit—fertility. Owen?
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    And then there was nothing more. She waited, surprised. Dozens, sometimes hundreds, of images rose from the dream catcher. Since implementing the ritual, she had never listed fewer than thirty-nine—a magical number, as it was thirteen times three. Four was…wrong.
    She recited the incantation again.
    The water in the pot bubbled and spat, hissing like a cat. She moved back slightly to avoid being scalded. Steam clouded her vision for an instant, and then image after image rose from the pot, swirling and changing into other images. Hastily she scribbled them down: “a blue eye; a sweet smile; Owen’s face; a holly branch; water (an