She had been tempted by dark magick. She couldn't hold her head high and say that she had never even considered it, that following the Wiccan Rede and minding the threefold law had come easily. Morgan was only too aware of the humbling effect of temptation, of the realization that she had such a desire in her, to be brought to the point of having to fight it.
Was that because she was human or because she was Ciaran's daughter? How easily had Ciaran slipped into darkness all those years ago?
There was more of Ciaran in Morgan than she ever wanted anyone to know. The only way to overcome that side of her was to look hard at it and face it head-on. The moment she pretended she was better than Ciaran, more immune to temptation than he was, that was when she would fall.
Morgan had to stop for a moment. Ciaran. She rested her head in one hand and rubbed her forehead. She took a sip of juice.
He had died four years after Morgan had put a binding spell on him and called Hunter to strip him of his powers. Thinking back on that grotesque scene still made Morgan's stomach turn. It was never clean or easy to strip a witch of his or her powers. Fifteen years ago it had been more com-mon-now the New Charter stressed rehabilitation, reteaching, limited bindings. But to strip a witch of Ciaran's strength of his powers against his will-it was like watching a human being be turned inside out. Ciaran had never recovered from the trauma-not many witches did. For a blood witch to live without powers, without the blessing of that extra connection to the world, to oneself-most witches preferred death. Some members of the New Charter were only now trying to develop rituals and spells that could possibly restore at least some limited magick to a witch who had been stripped.
As for Ciaran-to say that he had never recovered was a gross understatement After he had been tried and sentenced and sent to Borach Mean, a sort of rest home in southern Ireland for witches without powers, he had simply ceased to be.
Morgan had gone to visit Ciaran only once, about eight months after he'd arrived at Borach Mean. The memory made her cringe, and she almost dropped the small bottle of rosewater she was holding. She'd had so many torn and confused feelings about what she'd done, about Ciaran himself. She recognized herself in him; she was undeniably drawn to him, her handsome, powerful father. He'd been charming and complimentary-when he'd wanted something. He'd loved her and been proud of her, had seen more potential in her than in any of his other children. But to truly earn his total love, Morgan would have had to step out of light and into darkness forever.
At Borach Mean the witch in charge had led Morgan to Ciaran, in an enclosed courtyard. The pale peach-colored stucco walls had sheltered plants of all kinds, each chosen for its scent or beauty. Herbs and roses all grew lushly, basking in the sun, releasing their scents to the warm air. They had all been spelled to be without power, of no use in any kind of spell. Just in case.
Her feet quiet on the dusty paving stones, Morgan had walked up to him, and he'd jumped: one sad effect of witches losing powers was that they could no longer sense people approaching them, and they ended up being startled frequently. It had taken him several moments to recognize her. She'd been shocked and sickened by his appearance. He'd lost an incredible amount of weight and looked sunken and hollow, even frail. His hair was almost completely white, where before it had been a rich, dark brown with just a few silver threads. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. Their hazel color, once so like Morgan's, had faded to a pale, mottled shade that seemed strangely lit from within.
"You." Morgan had felt rather than heard the word, his uncomprehending stare, the odd glitter of his almost colorless eyes.
"I'm sorry," Morgan had managed to choke out. Those pathetically inadequate words were supposed to cover so much-sorry you were so evil. Sorry you were my dad. Sorry you killed my mother. Sorry I helped bring you to this. Sorry that someone who could have been beautiful and strong and wise instead chose to be corrupt and destructive. And despite everything, sorry we couldn't have been the father and daughter that each of us would have wanted.
In the next moment Ciaran had lunged off his bench, fingers clenched like talons, and Morgan, startled, had taken a big step back. He had started spitting hateful words at her, words of revenge, accusation: "Traitor! Betrayer! Dog-witch! Nemesis! Foul, faithless daughter!" He had tried to throw spells at her, spells that, had he had his powers, would have flayed the flesh from her bones. As it was, his attempt to create magick only made him crumple in pain, retching, his fingers clawing at the light red dust on the ground.
"Ciaran, stop," Morgan had cried, raw pain squeezing her heart. And still he had spewed awful words at her. She had burst into tears, shaken by the horror of it all, and then, unbearably, Ciaran had started crying, too, as an attendant ran up. One witch had led Morgan inside, while two others had picked Ciaran up and taken him back to his room. The last thing Morgan had heard was his voice, a shattered, hollow croak, choking out her name.
Morgan could still smell the heated dust of Borach Mean, still feel the warm wind in her hair. Not long after that, she had moved to Ireland for good. Four years later, when she heard that Ciaran had died, she had gone to his funeral.
Moving the step stool, she continued to search for the ingredients she needed.
Ciaran's funeral had been in Scotland, where his wife, Grania, had lived with their three children: Kyle, Iona, and Killian. Her half siblings. Grania had finally divorced Ciaran after he'd been stripped. Morgan had heard about it from Killian, the only one of her half siblings she had any relationship with. He hadn't asked her to come, had advised against it, in fact, but she'd told him that she needed to and that he didn't have to let on who she was when she was there.
So she'd shown up at the small and ancient burial ground that the MacEwan Woodbanes had used for centuries. She'd worn a scarf and dark glasses to hide her hair and eyes. Almost two hundred people had been there: dark witches, come to mourn their betrayed and fallen leader, and others, his enemies, come to make sure he was dead at last. It had been very odd. Killian had spotted her but made no sign of recognition. Morgan hadn't known anyone else there except for a few council members, like Eoife MacNabb. Eoife also gave no sign of recognition.
Yet Grania, Ciaran's ex-wife, the one he had betrayed to become Morgan's mother's lover, had suddenly spotted her across the crowd and let loose a spine-cracking banshee howl.
"You!" she had cried. "How dare you show your face here? You, his bastard daughter!" Her face had contorted in resentment. "You and he deserved each other! How I wish you could join him in his grave right now!"
Everyone had turned to look. Morgan had stared at Grania, not saying a word, just knowing what she could have said. Grania had once perhaps been pretty, but thirty years of frustration and anger had twisted her face, made it seem lumpy and asymmetrical. Her hair was a harsh blond that ill suited her red, windburned face and pale, gooseberry eyes. She and Ciaran had had a rocky relationship. But clearly, even after all Ciaran had done to her, she still felt something for him, something that made it impossible to bear the reminder Morgan provided of his affair with Maeve.
Next to Grania, Killian had worn a pained expression-he hadn't joined in his mother's accusations, but neither would he defend Morgan against her. Killian mostly just took care of Killian. But Iona and Kyle-Ciaran's other children-had been another matter, Iona resembled Grania in looks-she was pale, dumpy, and had none of Ciaran's handsomeness, charisma, or grace. She'd stared at Morgan with plain hatred, but then her expression had turned to something else, something sly and knowing, almost like satisfaction: a smug, triumphant look that Morgan didn't understand. Could Iona have been glad that Ciaran was dead? He hadn't made her life easy, but she had professed to love him.
Then Kyle had surged toward her, hissing a spell. He looked more like Ciaran, but where Ciaran's features had been classical and chiseled, Kyle's were softer, more doughy. He had Ciaran's coloring, as Morgan did, and Killian.
His attack had been useless. Morgan had been initiated-she was far from an untrained teenager, unaware of her powers. Not only that, but she had already lost Hunter. Life had honed her, made her harder. Morgan, sitting there at her father's funeral, had been as hard and sharp and deadly as an athame. Kyle's power was undisciplined, unfocused, and Morgan had flicked his spells aside with a wave of her hand as if they were gnats.
This wasn't what she had come for. It gave her no pleasure to antagonize or hurt her father's other family. Sighing, Morgan had gathered her things and threaded her way through the crowd. She'd walked back toward the village and caught the next train out. Since then she'd heard about Kyle or Iona only seldom, usually from Killian, whom she continued to see maybe once a year or so, whenever she was in his area on business. Killian had changed little, despite a surprisingly early marriage and, at last count, three children. He was still happy-go-lucky, held no grudges, and managed to skip through life like an autumn leaf, tossed here and there by the wind.
Killian had told her of the political marriages of both Kyle and Iona, who had each chosen to ally themselves with powerful Woodbane families, Iona had taken her father's legacy seriously and had been studying intensively-though whether she could ever come close to filling Ciaran's shoes was unknown. Kyle had continued to soften, like an overripe cheese, and now it sounded as if he mostly played the role of country gentleman, managing extensive estates in western Scotland, supported by his wealthy wife.
Morgan sighed to herself. Okay, well, now she had managed to thoroughly depress herself. But at least she'd gathered everything she needed for the spell.
Back in the living room she lay down on the couch. It was dark outside now, and the rain had just started, Moira still wasn't back Morgan was tempted to scry for her daughter but instead sent a witch message to Moira, asking her where she was. Thankfully, Moira sent back that she was on her way home.
Rubbing her forehead again, Morgan lay in the shadowed room, trying to keep a lid on her anxiety. Moira was safe. She was coming home. And tomorrow Morgan and Keady would ask Christa, Katrina, and Will Fereston to join them in performing a spell to trace the black smoke from last night. Morgan was also considering taking the hex pouch and confronting Lilith with it, possibly making some ambiguous counterthreats. Maybe she could scare Lilith into leaving her alone.
Yawning, Morgan stretched, then went "oof!" as Bixby jumped up on her. Absently she stroked his orange fur, watching his eyes drift lazily shut. With Bixby purring comfortably on her stomach, Morgan gradually let herself be taken by sleep.
She and Hunter were making love. It felt oddly unfamiliar and at the same time as easy and regular as breathing. She could smell his skin, his hair, feel his short, white-blond bangs brush her forehead. It was as if he had been on a long trip and had just gotten home. Maybe this was one of their infrequent meetings: they were coming together in some city, somewhere, whenever they could.
"I thought you were going to settle down, come live with me," Morgan murmured against his shoulder, holding him tight. The sheer delicious joy of being with him, the feeling of connection, of rightness. This was where home was: wherever they could be together, for however long.
"I am," he whispered back, kissing her neck. "Just not as soon as I thought."
Morgan smiled against him, closing her eyes, relishing the moment, feeling gratitude for how much she loved him, that one person was able to love another person so completely. "Make it soon," she told him. "I need you with me."
"Soon," he promised. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long."
"I forgive you." Morgan sighed, kissing his shoulder.
He grinned at her, the edges of his eyes crinkling. His eyes were so green, so pure and full of light "Ta," he said. "And I forgive you."
"For what?" Morgan demanded, and the light faded from his eyes.
"For believing I've been dead all this while."
Morgan woke up crying.
Finnegan came over to the couch and gave her hand a tentative lick. Still sobbing, Morgan patted his head and tried to sit up, dislodging Bixby. Oh, Goddess, oh, Goddess. With a rough movement she pushed her hair out of her eyes. She coughed, tried to hold back a sob, and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
What time was it? Only five-twenty. She'd been asleep twenty minutes. Morgan quickly cast out her senses. Moira wasn't home yet but surely would be soon. Standing shakily, Morgan went to the hearth and threw some small logs sloppily onto the andirons. Her nerves were jangled by the dream, but kindling fire with magick was almost second nature by now. She huddled by the fire for several minutes, and she could feel the first tongues of flame trying to break through her intense coldness, the coldness that seemed to crack her bones.
What had that dream meant? she wondered miserably. She'd just had a startling, realistic dream about Hunter the same day someone had left a piece of spelled morganite on her garden path. There were no coincidences. In the days, weeks, months, years after his death, nightmarish Hunter dreams had haunted Morgan so that she'd often been afraid to sleep. How many times had she dreamed he was alive, only missing, not dead? How many times had she dreamed he had simply left her for another woman-then woken up with tears of happiness on her face because even his leaving her to be with someone else was infinitely preferable to his being dead?
But it had been ages since she'd dreamed of him so vividly, dreamed that he was still alive. This, the morganite, the face in the window, the black smoke-it was all adding up to something. Someone was haunting her with her past-someone who knew her well enough to know about Hunter. She needed to find out who, and how, and, most importantly, why.
Morgan looked down at her shaking hands almost with detachment, as if she were in the middle of a science experiment and this was a side effect. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She hadn't felt this way in twenty years. My world is no longer safe.
I need help.
Standing, Morgan walked over to the phone. She flipped through her address book and found Sky Eventide's latest number. Sky was Hunter's cousin and, after Morgan, had probably known him better than anyone. All these years she and Sky had kept in touch, some years more than others. They'd never had a close or comfortable relationship, but they'd been united in their mutual love of and grief over Hunter and made an effort to keep track of each other. Sky had never married, though she and Raven Meltzer had gotten back together for a stretch and shared an apartment in London for several years before Raven moved to New York when her career as a fashion designer took off. These days it seemed like Sky usually had some cute guy or girl hanging around adoring her, until they annoyed the crap out of her and she cut them loose.
Sky answered at once, her clipped tone suggesting that Morgan had just disturbed something important.
"Sky? It's Morgan. I'm sorry-are you in the middle of something?"
"Just trying to get my bloody toaster to turn out one decent slice, the bugger. Have you noticed how hard it is to spell appliances?"
Just hearing Sky's voice stopped Morgan's nerves from dumping adrenaline into her system. It was so familiar, from so long ago, when Morgan had just been discovering magick and love and sadness all at once.
"Uh, isn't that a-p-p-l-i-"
"Oh, very funny," Sky growled, and Morgan actually smiled. "Smart ass. You know what I mean. They're impossible. Hell, even rocks are easier to control."
"I know what you mean," Morgan agreed. "I'm pretty low-tech."
On Sky's end Morgan heard the scrape of metal and a slight thud, as if Sky had given her toaster a blow.
"Anyway, what's going on?" Sky asked.
Morgan hesitated. Sky had gone through almost the same pain that she had so many years ago, when Hunter had died. She hated raking it all up for her. But she needed help.
"I'm afraid," she admitted. She could almost feel Sky sit up, her interest sharpen.
"Tell me what's going on."
"Weird things. I was looking out the window at night, and I had a vision. A face appeared next to mine in the window. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was someone fair. Then just this morning I found a big chunk of morganite right in my yard, on the path. Morganite. And it had been spelled to hold a person's image. Again, I couldn't make out who it was. It was blurry and the stone was full of flaws, cloudy."
"That is odd," Sky said slowly. "Is someone working against you? Or your coven?"
"That's not all." Morgan quickly described the black smoke at the circle and filled Sky in on her history with Lilith and Ealltuinn. "But those things don't explain who the person is that I keep seeing. Why send me images? What would that do?"
"Maybe just unnerve you?"
"Well, yes, but the images themselves aren't scary. It's the idea that someone's doing this on purpose, you know? And there's more-just now I fell asleep, and I had a dream. It was it was about Hunter, about me and Hunter." She paused, swallowing. "And I said I forgave him for something, and he said he forgave me, too. I asked what for, and he said, 'For believing I've been dead all this while. "
After almost a minute Sky said, "Really." Her voice was concerned, thoughtful-and held a twinge of sadness as well.
"Yes," Morgan said, hearing a slight crack in her voice.
"Who around there knows about Hunter?"
Morgan thought. "My mother-in-law knows. You know I was a mess afterward, and she took me in. Colm knew about him. Some members of my coven."
"Do you think it could be one of them, trying to work on you?" Sky asked. "Maybe they've been resenting Hunter all these years? Either Colm doing this from the other side or maybe his mum, now that he's gone and can't protect you?" Morgan took a minute to work through those ideas. Her automatic response was, Of course not, but she had to think through all possibilities.
"I don't think it's Colm," she said. "Colm knew about Hunter but never seemed that jealous of him. Hunter was gone, and Colm had me, and we had Moira."
"Did he wonder if you loved him as much as Hunter?"
Morgan sighed. Sky had a knack for asking the tough questions.
"He probably did," Morgan answered with unflinching honesty. "I mean, no one could replace Hunter-he was my muirn beatha dan, and Colm knew that. But once I was married to Colm, I did my best not to let him down or make him think he was second best. And I did truly love him."
"And Katrina?"
"No, Katrina is more the in-your-face type," Morgan said. "She wouldn't bother resorting to anything this subtle."
"Which leaves who?"
"Well, the leader of Ealltuinn, as I mentioned. But how could she know about Hunter? I mean, the morganite. Who could possibly know about that? Only Bree and Robbie. And they're not blood witches. And of course wouldn't want to do this to me."
Robbie was living in Boston, a partner in a law firm, married to a woman he'd met in law school. He and Bree had dated through high school and broken up in college, but both of them and Morgan were still good friends and kept in touch regularly.
"Who else?" Sky said. "Someone who would want to hurt you?"
Morgan thought. "Well, there's Grania," she said. "But it's been so many years since I last saw her, at the funeral it doesn't make sense that she'd be doing all of this now. And I don't think she's all that powerful, frankly. Neither is her son Kyle. I'm not sure about Iona-but I do think Killian would have warned me if he knew I was in danger from any of his family."
"Right." Sky said. "Then we're still stuck."
"Sky," Morgan said hesitantly, "you don't think-there's no way-I mean-" She heard Sky draw in a deep breath, then let it out.
"I think we'd be able to feel it somehow if he were still alive, don't you?" Sky's voice was rough-edged but gentle. "We've both tried, with small means and powerful ones, to track him through the years. But since the day that ferry went down, I haven't felt his presence. I haven't felt him anywhere in this world. And I really think that I would. Not because I'm so powerful or even because he was, but because of our connection."
"You're right. I haven't felt him either. And I'm sure I would have as well," Morgan said. At that moment she realized that deep down she'd somehow been hoping Sky would say, Maybe he's still alive! Let's find him! How sad, after all these years, to have that hope.
"You're much, much more powerful than I am," Sky went on. "More powerful than Hunter. And your connection to him was stronger than mine-I'm only his cousin. I think you would have felt something if he were still alive."
"I would have," Morgan said, feeling deflated. "It was all just so horrible. Because I didn't see it happen-that seems to make it less real. They never found him. I never had that final proof. When it happened, I felt nothing. I didn't feel his living presence, and I didn't feel his definite death. I just felt nothing." "Maybe that's what death feels like."
"I guess it feels different every time," Morgan said hollowly, thinking back to Cal, Hunter, Ciaran Colm.
"I'm sorry, Morgan." Very few people saw this softer side of Sky, and Morgan was deeply grateful. She and Sky had practically hated each other when they'd met, and it had taken years for them to achieve this understated friendship. "I could come down," Sky said casually. "I'm between jobs." Sky traveled around and had most recently worked as a translator for the Medieval Studies Department at the University of Dublin.
Yes! Morgan cried inside, but she forced herself to say, "Thanks, Sky. I should probably figure things out here first. I've got some good people around me. We'll scry. Maybe we can uncover more information. How about I'll call if things get worse or I need your help?"
"Are you sure?"
No. "Yeah-I'll definitely call you if things get worse."
"Well, keep your eyes open. If someone's really doing this, it sounds a bit scary. Be carefulprotect yourself, all right?"
"All right. Thanks. I'll talk to you soon."
7. Moira
I have to write this down before I forget. I want to forget, but I know it's important to remember. Who said, "If man doesn't learn from history, he's doomed to repeat it?" Or something like that. That's what this is like.
I don't know how to explain it, how to talk about it, even to my Book of Shadows. Oh, Goddess, I walked the fine edge between light and darkness tonight, and even now I don't know if I chose right.
Selene is dead at last. I saw the life fade from the eyes of her hawk, and I know her spirit couldn't escape. I didn't kill a person in a human body, but I crushed the spirit of someone who was once human, someone who was incredibly evil, who had tried to kill me, had hurt my sister.
Does that count?
Does it matter if I myself wasn't human when I did it? If I shape-shifted into a hawk, then was it one hawk killing another, and does it make it less bad?
Goddess, I don't know. Maybe I am on the dark side now. I don't want to be. I want to work for goodness. Do I get to try again? Goddess, I need answers. I'm only seventeen.
"Free!" Tess cried, throwing her arms in the air. Moira, sitting on the school steps, closed her mother's Book of Shadows and smiled.
"Mondays are always so long," she said as students from their school streamed past them. She kept a watch out for Ian-they'd had barely any time to talk today between classes.
"Is your mom still freaked about Saturday?" Vita asked in a low voice. "My folks were uptight all yesterday. It was the worst thing I've ever seen."
"Me too," Moira said. "Yeah, Mum seems really rattled. She hates to let me out of her sight. Yesterday I met Ian in town, but I'd told Mum where I was and all."
"Iiiiaaaannn," Tess sang under her breath. "Did you tell him about the black smoke?"
"No." Moira shrugged. She still couldn't shake the uneasiness she'd felt since scrying with him.
"How are things going with him, then?" Tess asked.
"Good," Moira said, nodding. She saw Tess and Vita look at each other. "What?"
"What's wrong?" Vita asked. "You're all distracted. Like you're not really here."
That got Moira's attention. "I'm sorry." She leaned closer so only they could hear her. "Actually, I'm totally weirded out about my mum."
Tess and Vita looked at her questioningly.
Moira hesitated. But if she couldn't tell her two best friends, who could she tell? "My mum shape-shifted," she breathed. "Into a hawk." Her friends' eyes went wide.
"No," Tess whispered. Vita's mouth was open in shock.
Moira nodded solemnly. "Mum told me yesterday, and then I found it in her second Book of Shadows. These books have been something else," she said softly. "It's a whole different picture of my mum. Like she had a completely different life that I didn't know anything about. It's kind of mad."
"Do you know what happened?" Vita asked.
"Not completely," said Moira. "I mean, she told me about it, and I was like, oh, Goddess. But then I read that bit in her second Book of Shadows this morning and again just now. And for some reason, reading about it got to me in a way her telling me about it didn't. Like it was more real. But I've been freaked out about it all day."
"Don't blame you," said Tess, looking worried. "I don't know what I'd do if I found out something like that. I mean, shape-shifted! That's some wicked magick."
Moira nodded, her tension feeling like a knot in her chest.
"Did you mention it to your mum?" Vita asked.
"No. Not yet. But we've been having big talks." Moira sighed. "About her. Her past. I mean, it's good and all, but"
"Come on over and get it off your chest," Vita offered. "My folks are at work still, and Seanie won't bother us." Seanie was Vita's twelve-year-old brother.
"Moira?"
Ian. Moira turned and there he was, standing on the step above her. He gave her a slight smile, as if unsure how she would be today. Last night he'd insisted on walking with her all the way to her house in the rain because he hadn't wanted her to have to walk by herself. They'd held hands, and he'd kissed her again, in the road, right before the light from Moira's house had hit them. All day they'd been exchanging glances between classes and during math, the one class they shared.
"Hi," she said, feeling shy in front of her friends.
"I'll come, then, Vi," Tess said, straightening up and acting normal. "Moira, you want to come, or maybe another time?"
Tess was giving her an easy out. Moira glanced at Ian, at the expression in his eyes, and she nodded gratefully at her friends.
"Another time?"
"Sure." Tess and Vita waved good-bye. For a moment Moira wanted to change her mind and run after them. It had been such a relief to confide in them, and she wanted to talk about it more. On the other hand, this was Ian.
"Are you all right?" he asked after the two girls had left.
"Yes. You?" Could he see all the emotion in her eyes?
"All right. I'm amazed we didn't catch our death of cold," he said, trying for a light tone.
"Must be all that Echinacea and goldenseal Mum pumps into me," Moira said, and Ian grinned. There. Now he looked like himself.
"Want to go sit in the park for a while?" he asked, and she nodded happily. The doubts were still there, but somehow being with Ian made everything else feel all right.
"What does that look like?" Ian asked.
Moira tilted her head and squinted at the pile of leaves on the ground. "Nothing. A fat mouse?"
Ian grinned at her. They were sitting side by side on a bench in the tiny park two blocks from school. The wind was picking up, and it was getting chillier as the sun started to think about going down. But Moira wasn't going to be the first to move- not when Ian had his arm around her and they were alone. Not even her mum's worrying could budge her. Moira sent her a quick witch message letting her know where she was.
"Cair a beth na mill nath ra," Ian sang very softly under his breath. He chanted more words so quietly that Moira couldn't hear them.
The leaves on the ground shifted and overlapped and rearranged, separating and drawing together. Soon they had formed the initials MB, there on the brick walk.
Moira grinned with delight. "Next thing you know, you'll be doing it with ladybugs," she said, and Ian laughed.