"A storm blew up out of nowhere," she finally got out. "The ferry went down, and nearly twenty people died. Including Hunter."
"Oh, Goddess," Moira breathed.
Morgan nodded sadly, feeling the familiar, heavy weight of grief in her chest. "Some people they managed to save, some bodies they managed to recover. But Hunter and twelve other people were sucked into the sea and never found. Drowned."
"Oh, Mum." Moira's eyes were full of sympathy, along with the pain and confusion."This ring-" Morgan frowned at it, twisting it on her finger. "Hunter had given me this ring years before we got engaged. Like a promise ring. The day the ferry went down, I waited on the dock all day in the rain. When they finally said there could be no more survivors, I threw my hands out, like this"-she demonstrated, realizing that her hands were trembling-"and all of a sudden this ring flew off my finger and landed in the water. And it sank."
Moira frowned. "How can you be sure this is the same ring? Maybe it just looks like yours."
Morgan took it off and showed her the rune. "Beorc. For new beginnings," she explained sadly.
"But there's no way someone could have gotten your ring out of the sea, even if they had jumped right in after it. Much less after all this time. Mum, this doesn't make sense."
"You're right." Morgan met her gaze evenly.
"So where did it come from?" "I don't know. It has to be part of something bigger. You know things have been off lately. There's there's more that's happened that I haven't told you." Trying to keep her emotions under control, Morgan filled her in on everything: the hex pouch, the morganite, the visions, the dream, seeing Hunter while scrying. "Now I just need to figure out what's going on and why." Easier said than done.
For a minute Moira was quiet, her eyes moving back and forth as she worked things out in her head. "Did you did you ever love Dad as much as Hunter?" Her face was pained, and Morgan answered carefully.
"It was different, Moira," she said. "I loved your dad so much. He was the only man I ever lived with. We married, we had you. Those experiences build up to a much richer experience of love. I trusted your dad. I was so grateful for the fact that he loved me, and he was such a good person. I was so grateful he gave you to me. I appreciated so many things about him, and I tried to make sure he knew that. Yes, I loved him. Not the same as I loved Hunter, but I truly loved your father."
Moira thought for a moment. "It it seemed real," she said. "Your love for each other, I mean." Her voice had a note of desperation. "I remember how you used to look at him-with love in your eyes. Like when you both teased me." She lifted one of her green strands and let it fall.
Morgan's throat threatened to close. "He was my best friend, sweetie."
"He was my best dad," Moira said, her voice suddenly cracking. Then she and Morgan were hugging, tears running down their faces. "I'm so glad I still have you," Morgan said. "You're my most precious gift. I hope you know that."
Tearfully Moira nodded.
They held each other for a few minutes, and Morgan never wanted to let go. But eventually Moira pulled back. Morgan looked at her daughter, brushing the hair from her face.
"You should get some sleep," Morgan told her. "It's been a very difficult day-and I don't know what we're up against, but it seems more and more to be something-or someone-major. We'll need our strength."
Moira got up and headed for the stairs. "Thanks for telling me about Hunter," she said, looking back. "But I don't see how anyone found the ring and put it on our walk. I don't understand why someone would do it."
Morgan sighed. "I don't understand either. But I know it doesn't bode well. It feels threatening. But I just don't know what the threat is, exactly-or where it's coming from."
"Well, don't worry, Mum," Moira said. "We'll find out."
Morgan smiled at Moira's teenage confidence and watched her daughter climb the narrow stairs.
Holding out her hand, she looked again at the ring, and fresh tears welled up in her eyes. Who was doing this? She needed some answers.
Her workroom was small, maybe nine feet by nine. Colm had built it for her soon after their handfasting. It had two small windows, high up on the walls, and a tiny fireplace all its own. Morgan kindled a fire there, rubbing her arms impatiently as she waited for the chill to lessen. Through one of the high windows Morgan could see the half-moon, partially covered by thick, heavy clouds. Morgan put on her green silk robe, the one embroidered with runes and sigils, that had been Maeve's, decades ago. She drew three circles of protection on the floor, each one inside the other. Twelve stones of protection marked the twelve points of the compass. Next to the stones she lit twelve red candles for power and protection. Then she sat inside the smallest circle, closed it around her, and lit a red pillar candle in the center.
"I call on the Goddess of knowledge," Morgan said. "I call on my own strength. I call on the universe to aid me in my quest for the truth. I am here, safe within the Goddess's arms. I call on the ancient power leys of Ui Liathain, the power deep within the earth beneath me." She stretched out her arms, symbolically opening herself to knowledge. "Who is focusing on me? Who is sending these objects, these images, these thoughts? What do I need to find? What lesson is here for me, waiting to be revealed? Goddess, I ask you, please help me." Then she sat cross-legged in front of the candle, rested her hands on her knees, palms up, and breathed deeply, in and out. She focused on the small, single flame, the red wax melting, the scent of beeswax and fire and the wood smoke from the fireplace. Concentrating on the flame, she chanted her personal power chant, drawing energy toward her, opening herself to receive it. And she felt it, a bud opening within her, a flower beginning to bloom. Magick was rising and swelling in her chest, accompanied by a fierce joy that Morgan clung to, seized to herself. Oh, magick. Sometimes it seemed as if it was the only thing that made life worthwhile. It was a blessing.
Morgan kept her gaze fastened on the candle's flame. In that one flame she could see her whole life and all of life around her. Every memory was there on the surface, every emotion. But it was also like looking down on something from above-there was sometimes a distance that allowed her to see something more clearly, see the bigger picture, put the pieces together.
Now all she asked was, What do I need to know?
And suddenly Hunter was there before her. Morgan gasped, her breath catching in her throat, her skin turning to ice. Hunter was hunched over on a beach. The air was gray and still around him. The clothing he wore was in tatters, barely more than rags, offering grossly inadequate protection from the weather. His arms were burned brown from the sun, the skin freckled and leathery. His hair was much too long, wispy and tangled, with visible knots snarling the once-fine strands.
Morgan trembled. Holding her breath, she forced herself to release tension, but she could already feel the needle-fine threads of adrenaline snaking through her veins. His cheekbones, always prominent, now looked skeletal. The skin on his face had once been beautifully smooth, fine-textured, and pale. Now it was ridged, sunburned, peeling in places. There was an unhealed wound on one cheekbone below his eye. Grains of sand stuck to blood that had only recently dried.
Hunter was writing something in the sand, gibberish, childish doodlings. Morgan expected to see the beginnings of a spell, forms, patterns, something that she could understand, that would give her clues. Instead, she saw formless mean- derings, a stick drawn without purpose through the sand.
He looked up and saw her. Hunter. Pain clawed at Morgan's consciousness. It was so real, so vivid. If she could only reach out and touch him! His green eyes, once as dark and rich as a forest, now looked bleached by the sun and were surrounded by deep wrinkles. Slowly they widened in astonishment. His mouth opened in shock, then silently formed the word Morgan. He shook his head in disbelief. Morgan cried soundlessly at how tight his skin was on his bones. He was starving.
"Hunter." The word was a mere breath from Morgan, a slight release. Oh, Hunter, where are you? What's happening? Was it actually possible-could he have somehow survived the accident? What beach was this? The ferry had gone down in a small, populated cove. There was no way he wouldn't have been found.
He shook his head, his odd, pale eyes seeming to drink her in ravenously. Don't help me. Morgan heard the words silently in her mind. Listen to me. You're in danger. Don't find me.
Are you alive? She sent the words, as if she were sending a simple witch message across time, across death, across worlds. Are you alive?
His chapped and peeling lips crinkled in a grotesque mockery of a smile, and he shrugged.
If you are alive, I will find you, Morgan sent, and her power and determination were frightening and inescapable.
No, he sent back. No. I'm lost, I'm gone forever.
Hunter's image faded, his eyes too large for his bony face, his mouth forming words Morgan could no longer hear. Then she was alone again in her small workroom, breathing fast and shallowly, her hands trembling, clenching and unclenching. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers. The red pillar candle had burned down several inches. When Morgan glanced at the window, the moon was nowhere to be seen. Had those images been real? Twice she had scried and seen Hunter-first with Katrina and again just now Had she scried reality or simply what her innermost heart wished most to see-Hunter alive, even under such horrible circumstances? It had felt real. Oh, Goddess, what if it were real? What if Hunter were actually alive somewhere?
Slowly she stood and took off her robe, her hands shaking so badly, she could barely put her regular clothes back on.
She couldn't do this-she couldn't let herself believe Hunter was really out there if he wasn't, couldn't go through the pain of learning he was dead all over again. But how could she ignore these messages, coming to her one after the other? She had to know the truth. She would do whatever was in her power-which, if she pushed herself to the limit, would be intense-to find out if Hunter was alive.
Morgan moved numbly upstairs, checking to make sure everything was locked. Finnegan raised his head and growled. Automatically she glanced around: no evil spirits coming down the fireplace, nothing was on fire-then a flash outside caught her eye. In a moment she had cast her senses and picked up on a person outside, walking around the house. The living room was dark; no one could see in. But she could see out, and a tall, thin person with white-blond hair was outside her house.
Her heart stopped. Hunter.
Without thinking, Morgan ran to the door and flung it open, Finnegan on her heels. He growled and then barked several times sharply. Morgan stood in her doorway, and at the same moment her inner senses and her eyes informed her of the intruder: Sky Eventide came around the corner of the house just as Morgan identified her energy pattern. "Sky!"
Sky looked up and gave a slight smile. "Sorry I didn't call first."
Morgan began to breathe again, a rush of emotions overcoming her. It wasn't Hunter. Of course it wasn't Hunter.
She hurried over to Sky, grabbing her arm. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"
Sky shrugged as they headed back to the house. She had left her pack by the front door and scooped it up as they went inside. "I was concerned after our phone call the other night, and decided to come check things out."
"Oh, Sky, I saw Hunter," Morgan blurted. "Twice today. I saw him!"
Sky's night-dark eyes widened. "What do you mean, you saw him?"
"I was scrying," Morgan quickly explained. "He was much older, as old as he would be today. He was on a beach, wearing rags, and he was a mess. He was all windburned and battered looking-" Morgan broke off, unable to bear the memory of how haunted Hunter had appeared, how brutalized. "His bones were showing. He was starving," she went on, struggling not to break down. "He seemed to see me, and I said, Are you alive, and I will find you. And he said, No, I'm lost, I'm gone forever.You're in danger, don't find me."
Morgan took a ragged breath. "It seemed so real. It didn't seem like a vision, or a dream, or just a subconscious message. I mean I scried, and I saw Hunter, and he talked to me. And I can't help thinking, Oh, Goddess, what if he is alive somewhere?" It was the first time she'd said it out loud, and a shiver passed through her as the words came out. "How could he be?" Sky's voice was higher pitched than usual-she was clearly spooked, and Morgan knew that didn't happen easily. "He was on the ferry-people saw him get on it. People saw him in the water. People saw him disappear under the water."
"They never found his body," Morgan reminded her.
"Because he sank, along with the others!" Sky sounded angry, but it seemed as if she was just afraid to hope, like Morgan.
"There's more," Morgan rushed on. She held up her hand and showed Sky the ring Moira had found.
Sky looked at the claddagh ring, not understanding.
"Sky, this is the ring. My ring," Morgan said, her voice shaking slightly. "The ring I lost that day. It went into the sea. Moira found it on my front walk this evening. See the rune?"
"Goddess," Sky breathed. "Moira found this just outside?"
"Sky it means something. All the pieces. The morganite. My visions. My dream. What if he's o//Ve?" This time the words came out more forcefully, and Sky met her gaze, no longer arguing.
"The one thing I can't figure out," Morgan said, "is the attack on the coven. The black smoke. And it doesn't feel right here-others have noticed as well. How could there be a connection between Belwicket and Hunter? It doesn't make sense."
"No," Sky said slowly. "Not yet. But what you said, how it doesn't feel right here-I noticed it, too, as soon as I arrived. And listen, Morgan, when's the last time you checked your house for an enemy's marks?"
Morgan sat back, surprised. "Every day since Katrina and I found the hex pouch in the garden. Why?"
"Someone around here is out to harm you." Morgan swallowed. She'd suspected that much already, but how could Sky seem so certain?
"There are sigils on every windowsill, both door frames, and on top of your garden shed. I found three different pouches, two somewhat serious. I put them in the far corner of your yard-we'll deal with them tomorrow. There's evidence of other things buried in your yard in three different places." She shook her head, her fine, light hair flying.
Morgan's whole body went cold. She and Moira were in danger-more serious danger than she'd even realized. How could she have let things get this far? "How could I have missed the sigils, the pouches?"
"I don't know," Sky said. "I can't believe you and Moira aren't in bed with the flu or broken bones."
"I've been working protection spells regularly since the strange things started happening," Morgan said. "I had no idea those things were out there." She rubbed her forehead. Who could be working against her? And Hunter, Hunter. The name was running through her mind in a constant rhythm, a background for anything else she said or thought. Hunter might be alive. After all these years Hunter could be out there somewhere. Hunter, Hunter. "How how does this all fit together?" Morgan said, frustrated that she couldn't figure it out.
"I don't know," said Sky. "But if there's even a chance that Hunter's"
"We have to know for sure," Morgan agreed. "We have to find out who is trying to harm me and my family-and we have to find Hunter."
11. Moira
What had Gran been talking about tonight? Moira wondered sleepily as she lay in bed that night. What kind of troubles could she have "smoothed over"? Gran had said a friend of Mum's had died-that must have been Hunter-and Mum had been upset. Gran had smoothed her troubles over. How? Why?
Moira's mind was reeling from so much new information about herself, her mother, her family. Suddenly everything she'd believed about herself, her mum-it was all wrong. She was the granddaughter of one of the most evil witches in generations! His blood ran through her veins, Moira thought, staring down at her wrist. Her stomach contracted as she was overcome by a wave of nausea. How could her mother have kept all of this from her? She didn't even know who her mum was anymore. And the one thing that had still been true-the love Mum and Dad had shared, that Moira had seen for herself-even that had been a lie. Colm and Morgan hadn't been each other's muirn beatha dans.
Moira blinked back tears. How could her dad have borne knowing he wasn't Morgan's muirn beatha dan? Moira couldn't imagine being with someone who wasn't hers.
Moira ran over all the stories she'd heard about how her parents had gotten together. Mum had fallen apart after Hunter died. And when she'd fallen apart, Gran had taken care of her, and then Mum had married Dad and they'd had her.
Still trying to sort through it all, Moira drifted off to sleep.
Moira's mother was in labor. Her brown hair, very short, was damp in tendrils around her flushed face. Mum looked very young and wide-eyed. Next to her stood Peggoty MacAdams, the village midwife, and with her June Hightown, another midwife. Peggoty was holding Mum's hand, and June was wiping her forehead with a cloth.
Morgan was breathing hard. Her eyes looked a question at Peggoty.
"It won't be long now, my dear," Peggoty said soothingly. She placed her hand on Morgan's forehead and murmured some gentle spells. Morgan's breathing slowed, and she looked less panicky. June poured some tea, pale green and fragrant, and Morgan gulped it down, wincing at the taste.
Finally Morgan was pushing, her face damp, the muscles in her neck taut and ribboned with effort.
Moira was startled to realize that this was her, being born.
Peggoty said, "Just a bit more, dear, there you go, that's right, and here's her head "
"Oh, what a lovely baby," Peggoty crooned, scooping up the infant and swathing her in a clean white blanket. "She's a big, fine baby, Morgan. She's beautiful."
"Is she okay?" Morgan asked.
"She looks perfect, just perfect," Peggoty said with approval. "Goodness-she's nine pounds even. A lovely, plump baby." "Oh, good," Morgan said weakly, her head falling back against the pillows.
Peggoty beamed. "And now I bet the proud papa would like to hold his little girl?"
A man stepped forward hesitantly and held out his arms.
Moira's stomach tightened-it wasn't Colm.
It was a stranger. He was severe-looking, tall and fit, with light hair, the palest blond. He appeared nervous but held out his hands, glancing over at Morgan. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
With a kind of wonder, the man held baby Moira gingerly, as if she might disappear in a puff of smoke. He looked down into her face, and her eyes opened. The two of them stared at each other solemnly, as if to say, Hello. I belong to you. I will belong to you forever.
With a gasp Moira awoke. Her room was still dark; there was a faint streak of pink coming in at the bottom of her window shade. She was breathing hard and looked around her room to make sure nothing was out of place. Quickly she cast out her senses. Everything was normal. Or about as normal as it could be, given the past few days. Goddess, what a dream. She had seen herself being born. Everything about it had seemed so real, except for her father. Who was that? Why hadn't she dreamed about her dad?
Abruptly Moira sat back in bed, thoughts swirling in her head like leaves in the wind. Goddess, think, think.
Colm was her father. Everyone knew that. But Moira knew her dream meant something. She'd taken a dream interpretation class for her initiation. So what had this dream meant? That Colm hadn't been her father?
Moira sat up again, panicked. No, of course he had been. She would have known. Mum would have known. Surely her mother couldn't have lied about that. No. But then what did it mean?
Moira was wide awake. She raised her window shade so the palest light of the new dawn illuminated her room. Then she fetched her parents' Books of Shadows, Colm's and Morgan's, from the year she was born. She had read other Books of Shadows, but not these. Not yet. In Colm's she read about his growing feelings for Morgan, his admiration for her, his combined awe and respect for her «significant» powers. He thought she was beautiful and friendly but not openly interested.
Then she flipped through Morgan's, skimming the pages. She had moved to Cobh. She was growing to love Katrina and Pawel and Susan and all the others. She thought she might want to stay there forever. Except she missed Hunter so much, all the time. Her heart cried out for him. She ached to be with him-nothing was as good, as right, as when they were together.
Moira couldn't help feeling a pang as she read about just how deeply her mother had loved Hunter. Hunter, who wasn't Colm. Some protective instinct made Moira turn back to Colm's Book of Shadows. His job in Cobh was going fine. He was thinking it was time to settle down. He had dated several girls but couldn't get Morgan out of his mind. He knew she was seeing someone else. His feelings for her grew, and he decided he was falling in love with her. Not that it would do him any good. But he thought she was a one-in-a-million woman. Then it happened: he heard from his mother that Morgan had lost someone she loved. She was so upset that she couldn't think straight. She'd been hospitalized in Wales.
Colm traveled there and met Morgan's American parents and sister. Morgan had had a breakdown, and his heart bled for her. In her grief she'd hacked off all her hair, the thick, shiny chestnut hair that had almost reached her waist. Now it was as short as a boy's, but it made her no less beautiful. He loved her so much; if only he could take care of her. It was all he wanted: the chance to take care of her.
On the next page Colm was elated: the unthinkable had happened. Morgan had agreed to become his wife. He knew she was heartbroken, though she wouldn't talk about it. She still seemed very ill, but he was sure she would be fine in time. She just needed warmth and love and care and good food. He knew he could make her happy.
Moira kept skimming the pages. Outside, the sun was just starting to creep over the horizon, mostly covered by clouds. Great. Just what they needed-more rain.
Shortly after their wedding Morgan was pregnant. They hadn't realized it at first because of her illness. Colm was ecstatic. He loved his wife: she seemed healthier and more beautiful every day. Slowly her grief was going underground-she had almost smiled the other day.
Moira swallowed hard. It was so sad to read about it- how much her dad had loved Mum, how long it had taken Mum to be able to truly return his affection.
Going back to Morgan's Book of Shadows, Moira read about how Morgan was waiting for Hunter at a tea shop in Wales. There was no entry from later that night, when they had committed to being together. And no more entries for two months. Then a short one, in a weak hand, that acknowledged Morgan's marriage to Colm. And then another, two months after that: Morgan was expecting a baby. She was happy about it-it was a ray of sunlight piercing her gray shadow world. A few words about Colm-how kind he was, how gentle, how Morgan appreciated his care. There was no mention of Hunter, only a sentence about being ill and deciding to stay in Ireland.
And no magick. Before, her entries had been numerous and lengthy-a combination of daily diary, larger, philosophical thoughts, the directions her studies were taking her, spells she had tried and their results, spells she had created, different tinctures and essences she had used and their outcomes, her plans for next year's garden, and so on. But these entries were sparse, bare.
Though Moira looked, she could find no mention of Gran helping Morgan, no mention of smoothing away her troubles. The entries that mentioned her only described her kindness and caring, her constancy, her support. Morgan didn't detail any healing rites, circles held for her benefit, nothing.
Moira flipped ahead, searching for a mention of magick. A week after her birth Morgan had put some protection spells and general good-wishes spells on her new baby.
Hmmm. Something was odd. Moira skipped back and forth, looking from Colm's book to Morgan's, at earlier entries and later ones. The dates in Morgan's were messed up for a while-she simply hadn't put dates in, and it was only by her telling of events, and comparing the entries to Colm's, that Moira was able to figure out when an entry had been made.
Colm had been much steadier-virtually every entry was dated. Moira continued to flip back and forth. Hunter died, Mum got ill, Mum and Dad got married a month later. One month. Pretty fast for someone who had been so in love, for someone not marrying their soul mate. But considering how ill Mum had been, how devastated, maybe she had just really needed someone to take care of her. And from the entries it seemed she really had grown to love Colm.
Then Morgan was expecting a baby, and Moira was born in December, right before Yule. Hunter had died in March. Mum and Dad had gotten married in April. Moira had been born in December. Mum's Book of Shadows mentioned that she and Colm hadn't slept together before their marriage.
So Moira had been premature by one month. A nine- pound preemie. That didn't sound right. She couldn't have weighed nine pounds.
There were sounds from downstairs. Moira realized her mum was awake and getting breakfast, and now that she was paying attention, she realized there was someone else downstairs, too, a woman. Gran? Not Gran.
Quickly Moira threw on her hated school uniform, brushed her hair and her teeth, and headed downstairs, holding the two Books of Shadows.
She froze when she spotted the back of the strange woman's head-she had the same white-blond hair as the man in her dream. Then the woman turned around. "Good morning," she said evenly. "You must be Moira."
"Yes," Moira said. She clutched the books tightly in her hands, her heart pounding.
Morgan turned from the stove. "Morning, sweetie." She looked tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She gestured to the woman with a dishcloth. "Moira, this is Sky Eventide. We've been friends a long time. She was Hunter's cousin."
"You were Hunter's cousin?" Moira asked, a funny feeling in her stomach. The same hair as the man in her dream "Yes," said Sky, her expression guarded. She was unusual, not like Mum's other friends. Not smiling and remarking on how tall she was and asking about school.
"Oh," Moira said inadequately. She sat down at the table and poured some cereal into a bowl, then some milk, but couldn't bring herself to start eating. Her mind was whirling. Finally, keeping her tone as calm as possible, she asked, "Mum, was I born premature?"
Morgan looked surprised. "No in fact, you were late. The midwife said that nature decrees that a woman will be pregnant for exactly as long as she can absolutely bear it and then another two weeks." She rolled her eyes. "Let's just say I was anxious for you to get here."
"And how much did I weigh?" Moira pressed.
"Nine pounds."
Moira's pulse raced. No, no, it couldn't be.
"What's all this about, anyway?" Morgan asked, coming to the table. She moved the teapot closer to Sky, and Sky topped up her mug.
Moira pushed the two Books of Shadows toward her mother. "I was reading these this morning, and there's something-odd. It says that you and Dad got married in April, but I was born in December."
Morgan blinked. "No, that isn't right," she said slowly. She sat back and looked at the ceiling, thinking. "We were married in"
"April," Moira supplied.
Frowning, Morgan nodded. "And you were born December 15."
"Right."
Her mum looked at her, then shook her head. "No, there has to be some mistake, something wrong with the entries. I know you weren't premature. Goddess, you were a whale." Moira just looked at her mother.
"Why were you up this morning so early, anyway?" Morgan asked.
"I had a strange dream," Moira said. "It woke me, and once I was up, I I wanted to read these."
"Studying for your initiation, are you?" asked Sky, and Moira nodded.
"What was your dream about?" Mum asked casually. Dreams were often discussed in Wiccan households, whether they were important, funny, meaningful, or frightening.
Don't let this dream mean anything, please, Moira pleaded inwardly.
"Me being born," Moira said carefully. "Peggoty MacAdams and June Hightown were there. And they said, doesn't the dad want to hold her?" She paused, giving her mother a hard look. "But the dad wasn't Dad. They handed me to someone else." She turned her gaze to Sky. "He well, he looked like you. His hair was very light, like yours."