by Cate Tiernan
“And now Reyn,” said River.
Come on, someone please refill my champagne glass, I thought. I could feel Reyn’s tension, next to me, the warmth of his leg next to mine.
The whole table waited expectantly. I wondered what Reyn had said last year.
“I resolve… to try to be happy,” he said, sounding awkward.
Silence. Everyone was staring at him, and I knew why: He wasn’t exactly the poster boy for mirth and good cheer. Even now a sidelong glance told me he was almost scowling down at the table, his hands curled into fists on either side of his plate.
“Perfect, Reyn,” said River gently. “Thank you.”
Reyn uncurled one hand and picked up his fork, beginning to work steadily through the food on his plate. I was sure it tasted like sawdust to him.
So I was the most untrusting person in the world, and he was the unhappiest person in the world.
We were quite a pair.
CHAPTER 6
I was ready to just go to bed by nine thirty and skip the whole New Year’s circle thing, but again I knew I would be the only one lame enough to cut out, and my pride wouldn’t let me. Finally it was eleven thirty—time to get my circle on.
I met Rachel and Charles going out the back door and joined them, glad I wouldn’t have to walk through the woods alone. Another circle. Would I barf, as usual? See horrible visions, as usual? Would I feel that glorious starburst of light and power within me that made magick seem worthwhile and even necessary, at least till I started heaving? The darkness, thick and cold, pressed in all around me. I retucked the scarf around my neck, hoping I wouldn’t regret my decision to skip my down coat.
“I wonder if this year’s circle will be as good as last year’s,” Rachel said. Her voice was calm and even, and it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember her raising it or sounding sarcastic or teasing. It was just always calm and even.
“How was last year’s good?” I asked.
Rachel looked at me solemnly. “We made s’mores.”
I grinned, and Charles chuckled. The barest smile crossed Rachel’s face, and then we were at the clearing, and Solis had already started a fire.
“Welcome,” River said as we kicked off our shoes. “Welcome.”
The twelve of us stood around the fire, watching as the mesmerizing flames licked the dried wood, crept softly along its edges like a cat, then suddenly devoured it. It was, as I had predicted, freezing out here. I stretched my hands toward the warmth, but I was almost shaking with cold, as well as forcibly reminded of my horrible Incy vision. Great.
“You won’t feel it after a while,” Anne said, repeating what Brynne had promised.
I nodded, thinking that my bare feet were undoubtedly already turning blue. I would probably lose a couple of toes to frostbite. All I needed was for my nose to start running and then this picture would be complete.
“And here we are,” River said, smiling at all of us. “The end of another year. The birth of the next year of our lives. Tomorrow is a new day, a new chapter, a new start.” I thought she looked at me in particular, but the leaping fire was bending the air all around it, and it was hard to tell.
“This circle will be mostly celebratory,” River went on. “With each of us meditating on the theme of what a new year means to us personally. Then, at the height of our power, we’ll each release something that we no longer have need of. In past years, I’ve released fear or the need to control things or my intense craving for dark chocolate.”
Smiles.
“But of course each of you has something within you that you no longer need, something that is holding you back. Some of us already know what we plan to release, but don’t worry if you don’t have something in mind yet. At the right time, it will come to you. Now, are we all ready?”
No. We should disband and go have some hot tea.
I did not get that particular New Year’s wish. Instead we held out our hands, thumbs facing left so that they aligned perfectly when we clasped hands with our neighbors. I was between Rachel and Charles. River was across from me, and His Lordship was next to her, looking amazing in the deep amber robe that he was probably wearing nothing underneath.
Rachel glanced at me. “Did you say something? Or stub your toe?”
“No.” Must suppress stupid whimpers.
River began her song, her personal invitation to magick to come out and play. No, play wasn’t the right word—not with the appalling destructive power that I’d seen too many times. An invitation… to a conversation. That was more how it was.
We walked clockwise around the fire, and after the second revolution I realized I could feel my feet again, feel the cold ground and scattered leaves. With another revolution I was no longer cold and was starting to get the weird kindling sensation in my chest that signaled magick building in me, around me. I began to sing my song.
I’d asked Solis if I needed to be taught a more formal or traditional song to call magick to me, and he’d said no, it couldn’t be taught. It just came from within you, no matter what culture you were from or what language you used. In the past I’d simply opened my mouth and sounds came out, sounds that were ancient words. I figured I’d heard them when I was small, from my parents. The words far predated them; knowing now what I did about the great houses, I assumed they went back to the earliest days of magick and immortals, whenever that was.
At any rate, when I opened my mouth, my song appeared and drew magick to me, thrillingly, seductively, frighteningly. Our circle was moving faster now, and mine wasn’t the only flushed face. The fire danced in the middle, its flames seeming to become sharper, more jagged as our own dance continued.
Rachel’s hand was warm in mine; Charles’s felt strong and surprisingly firm. I looked from face to face, seeing the flickering light reflected off of skin and eyes. I saved Reyn for last, drawing out the moment when I would finally let my eyes rest on him. And there he was, between River and Daisuke. He was a good head taller than either of them. The fire cast shadows on his angled cheekbones, those bewitching, almond-shaped golden eyes. He suddenly looked at me before I could glance away, locking his gaze on me in a way that snatched the breath from my throat. His robe, like everyone’s, pressed against his skin as we revolved, outlining the hard planes of his chest. His scar was under that robe, as mine was under my scarf. Our matching scars. Not identical but a matched set, the two sides of my mother’s amulet.
My song twined in the air, growing stronger and richer. It wove itself into all the others, so that together we created a strong, thick tree trunk of twisted roots that seemed to sink deeply into the ground. It was so… entrancing, so beautiful, this beckoning of magick. I’d forgotten. I guess I’d never really known, not like this. Tiny things, baby spells, yes. But not this full-fledged courtship between me and magick, the promises we were making to each other…. Like a lover, I feared its power and its ability to hurt me. But like a lover, it also promised such incredible joy, such a blossoming of power inside. It was revealing itself to me—and so revealing me to myself.
Whoa, listen to me! Next I’ll be writing a self-help book! Joy through Witchcraft!
I forced myself to concentrate again on what was happening around me and not the Wondrous Miracle of Self-Realization within. River was smiling widely as she sang. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, flowed like liquid silver. She looked beautiful and happy and strong. I think I’ve looked like that at some point in my life, but it hasn’t been recent.
But I did feel sort of happy right now. I did feel strong. I was full of magick, bursting at the seams with it, and was probably grinning idiotically. I felt physically perfect, not too hot or too cold, but full of lightness and joy. My feet flew over the ground; my hair whipped around my face. I felt included and like I sort of belonged here, with these people.
“Now!” River said, and we all threw our hands in the air as if we were giving the universe a gift. Maybe we were. Who the hell knows?
Our circle slow
ed gradually and we came to a gentle stop, settling into our individual places like flower petals resting on water. There were smiles, looks of wonder and even awe as my circle-mates shimmered with the beauty of magick. I felt as if I could float right off the ground, and only the weight of my linen robe was keeping me earthbound.
Magick buzzed and crackled in the air. It was a blissful feeling of well-being, of every single thing in the world being exactly what it should be. I felt that at this moment I could do nothing wrong and that everything would happen the way it was supposed to.
River clasped her hands in front of her, breathed something into them, then flung her hands at the fire. The fire leaped as if in response: River had released what she didn’t need, and the fire had taken it, consumed it.
Asher was on River’s other side and he went through the same motions. I watched in fascination as the fire actually seemed to grab his wish out of the air. Say what you will, magick, schmagick, but that was downright freaky.
And so it went, around the circle: Anne, Lorenz, Brynne, Jess, Rachel… each cast something out, and the fire claimed it for its own.
Then it was my turn. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to cast off—more like I had way too many things for this one fire to handle. I’d probably make it gag or choke or something. Stupidity, selfishness, sloth, laziness—wait, is laziness covered by sloth or is it redundant? Immaturity, and I said selfishness, right?
Rachel gave me a gentle elbow in the ribs and I looked up to see everyone waiting expectantly. I swallowed, still wrapped in my glorious bubble of light and power. Quickly I clapped my hands together and breathed the first words that popped into my mind. I cast off darkness. I flung my hands open at the fire and it almost exploded, jumping to three times its size, making me step back quickly. But the flames mesmerized me, drew me in. I felt their heat but couldn’t tear my eyes away.
I cast off darkness. That had seemed to cover everything. I had shed my old life like a lizard’s skin; my old friends, my old me. Everything was new. This was a new year, a new start, and I was going to begin by making this conscious decision to release any darkness within me, to open myself to the possibility of good.
A memory came to my mind and floated before me, taking shape in the fire. It was me and Incy, and Boz and Katy were there, too. Then the fire faded away, and I saw the scene clearly.
We were in France, during World War II. We’d tried to cross the border into Switzerland with forged papers, but there had been bureaucratic red tape and we were stuck while we had new papers forged.
The four of us were on our way to a bar run by an immortal who had inexplicably decided to stay in France. We were glad he had, though. His bar was hidden—it was exciting and risky to get to, involving climbing down sewer steps in the dark, practically crawling through bombed-out cellars, and in one short section edging through a narrow, disjointed hallway that ran beneath a boarded-up cathedral.
As we hurried down the street, trying to avoid the annoyance of having a German patrol randomly stop us, we saw a Red Cross truck parked at the curb outside une poste—the post office. We were laughing, dressed up, looking forward to the evening and hoping to get our new papers the next day to escape this ruined, pathetic town.
The driver was inside the shop, the door still open. We heard him ask in appalling, American-accented French where the orphanage was. The shop mistress began explaining rapidly, with gestures, and it was clear that the driver wasn’t getting any of it. He mimed drawing a map, and the woman nodded and bustled off to get a piece of the inadequate, tissuelike paper that was all one could get then.
“Hey!” said Boz, slowing down.
“What?” I asked.
“The Red Cross truck—it’s going to the orphanage.” He lowered his voice and pulled us into an alley.
“So?” Incy asked, then his dark eyes lit up. “It’s taking supplies. Maybe food.”
When we half carried, half dragged the wooden crates into Felipe’s place, we were greeted like heroes. They held an unbelievable trove: bars of chocolate, soap, real eggs, which made everyone squeal, and actual oranges. None of us had seen any of these in months and months. We were magnanimous, sharing with everyone, handing out bars of chocolate as though we all had chocolate every day, blithely giving the eggs to Felipe’s wife, who bustled them off as if they were solid gold.
I remember the delicious, tangy scent of an orange as I dug my red-painted nails into the peel, pulling it back. A spritz of juice squirted out and hit my cheek. I laughed, and Boz licked it off. I squeezed some of the juice into the awful, watered-down whiskey that was Felipe’s stock in trade, and then I ripped the orange open and bit into the flesh. Nothing ever tasted so good, before or since.
It had been glorious, one of our favorite stories to remember and laugh about. We still congratulated one another on what a fantastic coup that had been.
Now, in the fire, I saw what I hadn’t seen then, hadn’t ever thought about: how the orphans would have heard the truck coming, would have peered through the windows, some broken and boarded up. How the nuns would have bustled about, giving them permission to run out and see le militaire. These were kids whose parents had probably died in one of the hundreds of air raids that German Messerschmitts had rained down on France. They’d probably run out to the truck, jumping on the driver, cheering when they saw the big red cross painted on the truck’s side. The driver would have strode to the back, feeling like Santa Claus. He would have seen their torn sweaters, the thin legs showing beneath too-short pants. Then he would have thrown back the olive green canvas and seen… nothing. An empty truck. The orphans would have been dumbfounded. Crushed. It would have been far better if the truck had never come—they hadn’t hoped for anything. But the truck had arrived, their hopes had flared up like the fire before me, and then their hopes had been utterly destroyed.
By us. By me. By my darkness.
Darkness, leave me, I pleaded silently. Darkness, leave me.
I heard someone cough, and I blinked, coming back to myself, to the here and now.
“What on earth did you cast out?” Rachel murmured, but River said, “Charles?” and the circle continued as if nothing had happened. I stepped back, trembling, and wrapped my arms around myself. Had I been standing there only an instant or for minutes? And how many memories did I have like that one? Things that had seemed wonderful, brilliant, amusing at the time—but that I would now look on with dismay, even revulsion? Many. So many.
Something sharp and bitter rose in the back of my throat and I put my hand to my mouth and swallowed hard.
Next to me Charles blew on his hands, and the fire gave a barely perceptible rise, as though it was a piece of cake after what it’d had to take from me.
My face was hot and I started to sweat; I felt curious looks. I focused on a spot near the fire’s base and didn’t raise my eyes. After Charles was Solis, and the fire mustered some energy to consume what he cast out. Solis, then Daisuke, then Reyn. I peeped at the fire for his; it gave a medium-size jump. What had he cast out? The longing to conquer people? The need to sack villages? His desire for me?
Then we were back to River, who looked alert and clear-eyed. “Well done, everyone. What a lovely circle. Let’s disband it together.”
We took one another’s hands again. I was embarrassed because my palms were clammy and Rachel and Charles could feel it. The twelve of us simply raised our arms to the sky and said farewell.
I felt the magick fading, paling, felt it start to unwind and slip off into the trees and the sky and the ground. That indescribable sensation of power and strength ebbed also, and I grew panicky, afraid at how diminished I would be without it, how normal.
A gentle arm slipped around my shoulder. River said, “Are you okay?”
I quickly did a self-check for signs of imminent hurling, then nodded. “Don’t think I’ll barf.”
“No, I meant emotionally,” she said. “That was an important circle; you raised a great deal o
f very strong magick. Could you feel it?” She inclined her head to mine as people started to find their shoes and head back to the house, chatting and laughing.
“I felt everyone’s magick, all twisted together,” I told her, and she looked thoughtful.
“Yours was particularly strong,” she said. “How do you feel about what you released?”
“Um, fine.” I found my shoes and shoved my sockless feet into them. I was starting to shiver again with the night’s chill.
River hesitated as if she wanted to say something else. I hoped she wouldn’t ask any more questions about what I had cast off—I wasn’t sure that I had done the right thing, said the right thing. Could one cast off darkness itself? Should I have just stuck with selfishness?
Finally she said, “Okay. We can talk more about it later. Come back to the house—we have all sorts of special treats waiting.”
“Okay.” I made a big show of slowly tying my laces, and she went on ahead. I didn’t want to talk about it, any of it. Not what I had released, not what I had seen, not the horrible, curled-up memory of false happiness.
I got to my feet and realized that everyone had gone on ahead, and I was alone. Outstanding. The fact that it was below freezing was just sprinkles on the doughnut.
I gritted my teeth.
An owl hooted, of course, sending a chill down my already chilled spine. I heard twigs, winter-dry, snapping from feet not my own. Was that—had someone laughed? Oh goddess. I swear, if a clown jumped out at me, I would flay—
Reyn stepped out from behind a tree, and I almost screamed.