by Cate Tiernan
Seeker
( Sweep - 10 )
Cate Tiernan
It's a time of joy for Hunter as he is reunited with his father, who vanished mysteriously years before. Only Morgan senses that something is wrong, that Hunter's father is hiding a dark secret that could threaten them all.
Seeker
Sweep Series, Book 10
Cate Tiernan
To my three nephews:
Paul, Daniel, and Coltrane
1. Invitation
Poor Dagda is still clomping around the house in his kitty cast. He has another week before it can come off. In the meantime je keeps giving me baleful stares, as if it were my fault that he ran in front of the car.
Since Hunter dropped the bomb about Sky’s leas on his parents, I’ve been waiting for him to say, “Today’s the day—I’m off.” But he hasn’t yet. Hunter. He makes me crazy: he keeps me sane. He seems so… English sometimes, kind of distant or reserved, but then he’ll look at me, and his eyes see right through to my soul, and I go all shivery and want to kiss him. He makes me feel safe, and at the same time he makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. Does love always feel like this?
— Morgan
Since Sky’s been gone, I’m amazed by what her presence meant in this house.There’s less laundry.There’s more food, but of a less interesting kind. The post is piling up—why does she get so many bloody catalogs? I always get the good parking spot right in front of the walkway. And the house is quiet: there are no vibrations that tell me I’m not alone, that my cousin is with me.
Now I’m here, and there’s no getting around it—male laundry is boring. I wear jeans and shirts and socks and underwear. Those four things, day and night, summer and winter. Sky’s clothes are so much more complicated—all sorts of weird girl-type articles of clothing, things I couldn’t even name. Morgan doesn’t seem to have as many varieties of clothes as Sky. She mostly wears corduroys or jeans, shirts or sweatshirts. Plain underwear, no bra, ever. (Excellent.) It’s funny—she doesn’t ever deliberately try to be sexy. She doesn’t have to. Just looking at her, in her regular clothes, and knowing what she feels like wrapped around me, pressed hard against me, knowing what her skin feels like, knowing the scent of her, the vibration of her, her aura. . my brain cells start fusing, and I cease being able to form coherent sentences. Like right now.
I still can’t get over Sky finding a lead on my parents. Seeing them again is something I’ve dreamed of for more than half my life. And now that my employer, the International Council of Witches, has given me permission and helped narrow down their whereabouts, I’m ready to go. I just need to make plans.
Alwyn, who was only four when they left, can barely remember them. Linden died trying to see them again. He failed. In some ways, it seems too huge. In the years they’ve been gone, my parents have taken on almost mythical proportions—witches say their names with reverence or curiosity or even disdain; they look at me as though their legacy was stamped on my forehead.
This is simultaneously the most exciting and most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me. More, even, than our run-in with Ciaran in New York. Or when Morgan shape-shifted into a wolf, tracked me, and almost ripped me apart. Goddess, what we’ve been through together. . I just wish Morgan could go with me now.
If Sky were here, she would offer to go. I wouldn’t let her, though. She is still fairly battered emotionally from her breakup with Raven. Spending time in France will be good for her.
But to have Morgan by my side as I see my parents for the first time in over a decade would make this so much easier. She is practical, powerful, able to face almost anything. I need her so much.
Morgan met me at Practical Magick, one of the area’s only occult bookstores. It was a popular Wiccan hangout, and I was good friends with the owner, Alyce Fernbrake. The bells over the door jangled, and I looked up to see Morgan coming toward me, a little smile on her face.
I’m over six feet, so I’m used to looking down at people, but Morgan always seems to be eye to eye with me. Objectively speaking, though, she’s about seven inches shorter than me, which still makes her taller than a lot of women. At seventeen, Morgan’s face shows no lines of age or wisdom, pain or laughter. Only striking bones, features that seem strong and womanly and intensely attractive. Her eyes are almost frighteningly knowledgeable, her expression solemn, her mouth generous yet not prone to vacuous smiles or asinine giggles. She is one of the most stubborn, strong-willed, prickly, reserved, and irritating people I have ever met. I love her so much, my knees buckle every time she’s near.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. Let’s go in the back.”
Morgan and I passed through the tattered orange curtain that separates the back room from the rest of the shop. It fell closed behind us, and then we were standing, looking at each other in the poorly lit room.
Her hair was loose and needed brushing. It fell in unsmooth waves past her elbows, almost to her waist. Her black peacoat was unbuttoned; her jeans flared slightly, with thready bottoms, to the tops of her scuffed leather clogs. Her large, brownish-green eyes watched me, and her strong, classic nose was faintly pink from cold. This was Morgan Rowlands. The daughter of Maeve Riordan, the last, powerful witch of Belwicket, and of Ciaran MacEwan, who was one of the darkest Woodbanes that Wicca had ever known. Adopted daughter of Sean and Mary Grace Rowlands. My love.
My desire for her came with no warning, like a snake striking, and suddenly I pulled her to me by her jacket, pushing my hands beneath the heavy coat and around her back, feeling the sweater she wore. I had a brief glimpse of her startled, uptilted eyes before I closed my own and slanted my mouth across hers, kissing her with an urgency that both scared and embarrassed me.
But Morgan met fire with fire; she has never backed down from anything in the months I have known her, and she didn’t push me away with false modesty now. Instead, she clung to me, her arms moving around my waist, and kissed me back, hard, stepping closer to me and putting her feet between mine.
Finally, who knew how long later, we eased apart. I was breathing hard, every muscle in my body tense and wired and urging me forward. Morgan’s lips were red and soft; her eyes were searching mine.
“I missed you,” I said, surprised to hear my voice sounding hoarse and breathless. She nodded, her own breath coming quick and shallow. “Come on, sit.” I led her toward the battered wooden table, and we both sank onto chairs as if we had just finished a marathon. Every bit of idle chitchat I could have summoned fled my brain, and, instead, I just held her hand tightly and blurted out my news.
“I’m leaving Saturday for Canada, to see my parents.”
Morgan’s dark brown eyes widened, and for a moment she looked afraid. But that impression faded instantly, and I wasn’t sure if I had really seen it.
She nodded. “I’ve been expecting this.”
I gave a short laugh. “Yeah. The council contacted me again this morning. They actually gave me directions to my parents’ house. Can you believe that? They think Mum and Da moved about three months ago.”
She nodded thoughtfully, not meeting my eyes.
“I’m driving,” I told her. “I think it’ll take about eleven hours. They live in a little town north of Quebec City. Morgan — will you go with me?”
Surprise lit her eyes, almost immediately replaced by clear longing.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” I said quickly. “But if you need to get back before I do, I can put you on a plane or train or rent you a car.”
As we held hands across the little table, we both pictured what it would mean. Long, intimate conversations in the car. Hours and hours of time alone together. Being together day and night. Meeting my parents, her being with me durin
g this incredibly meaningful experience. It would take our relationship to a whole new level. I wanted her to say yes so badly.
“I want to go,” she said slowly. “I really want to go.” She fell silent again. In her mind, she was probably having an imaginary conversation with her parents. I groaned to myself. What had I been thinking? Her parents don’t even allow boys in the house. There was no way they’d let their daughter take off to Canada without at least one chaperone, like we’d had in New York. And this would be a much bigger trip.
Her face fell, and I could feel her disappointment because it was mirrored by mine.
“I can’t,” she said. “Why am I even thinking about it? I’m still trying to get my grades out of the toilet, my parents are still twitchy around the edges, there’s no school vacation anytime soon — it’s impossible.” Her voice held frustration and impatience.
“It’s all right,” I said, covering her hand with both of mine. “It’s all right. I just thought I’d throw the idea out there. Don’t worry about it. There will be plenty of time for us to take trips in the future.”
She nodded, unconvinced, and I felt sorry for bringing the subject up, sorry for making her feel guilty that she couldn’t accompany me on this important journey. Looking into her face, I brought her palm to my mouth and kissed it. She sighed, and I watched the heat flare in her eyes.
2. Preparation
Goddess, I feel stupid. Stupid and childish and mad and guilty about not being able to go to Canada with Hunter. Why am I only seventeen? After what I’ve been through in the last five months, you’d think I would be at least twenty-three by now. I can’t stand being my age. I want to live in my own place, make all my own decisions, study the craft as much and as openly as I’d like. I want to be an adult. I should be an adult. Until I discovered Wicca, I’d always assumed I’d finish high school, go to college, and get a job that was incredibly satisfying, fun, creative, and that paid a ton of money.
Now the whole rest of my life seems up I the air. Eoife wants me to go to Scotland to study with some important teachers. I want to be with Hunter. My parents expect me to go to college. What for? I have to take the SATs this spring, have to start collecting college brochures. Suddenly everything seems so pointless.
Oh, Hunter, how long will you be gone?
— Morgan
Alyce Fernbrake recommended a friend of hers, Bethany Malone, as someone to lead my coven, Kithic, while I was gone. When I rang her doorbell on Thursday night, I had no idea what to expect and wondered if my being a Seeker would have a negative effect on our meeting.
She opened the door almost immediately. As soon as I saw her, I realized that I had seen her at least a couple of times at various witch gatherings here and there. Bethany was almost as tall as I am, big boned, with large, strong hands and a sturdy-looking body. Her short black hair was fine and straight; her eyes were huge and so dark, they seemed to have no pupils. I guessed her age to be about forty-five.
“Hunter Niall,” she said, looking at me consideringly. “Come in.”
“Bethany,” I greeted her. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
She led me through the short foyer into her lounge. Despite the building’s boxy, modern appearance, Bethany had created her own haven here, and this room was warm and felt familiar.
“I’m having some wine,” she said, getting down a glass. “Will you have some?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, watching her pour the dark, rich fluid. I took the glass and looked into it, inhaling the scents of fruit, tannins, earth, and sun. I drank.
“This is terrific,” I said, and she smiled and nodded. We sat across from each other, me on the sofa and Bethany in a large, overstuffed chair that was draped with a mohair throw. The room was lit by shaded lamps and several candles; there were herbs hanging in neat rows along one wall. I sipped my wine and felt a bit of the day’s tension start to melt away.
“Alyce told me you’re looking for someone to lead your circles for a while,” she said.
“Yes. I’m going out of town. Kithic is a fairly new coven, and I’d hate for them to get out of rhythm while I’m gone.”
“Tell me about them,” she said, folding her long legs beneath her. “Are you all one clan? I’m Brightendale — did Alyce mention it?”
“Yes, she did, and no, we aren’t,” I said. “In fact, out of the twelve, only three are blood witches — me, my cousin Sky, and a girl named Morgan Rowlands. And Sky’s on holiday right now, so there would be only eleven, including you.”
“Morgan Rowlands,” said Bethany. “Goodness. She’s in your coven? What’s that like?”
I grimaced. “Unpredictable. Exciting. Frightening.”
Nodding, Bethany swirled the wine in her glass. “What about the rest of them?”
“They’re all in high school,” I explained. “They’ve all known each other, more or less, for most of their lives. Widow’s Vale is a pretty insular town, and there aren’t many different schools. One girl, Alisa Soto, left the coven recently, but I have a feeling she’ll be coming back. She was the youngest, at fifteen. The others are Bree Warren, Robbie Gurevitch, Sharon Goodfine, and Ethan Sharp. They’re all juniors. Simon Bakehouse, Matt Adler, Thalia Cutter, Raven Meltzer, and Jenna Ruiz are all seniors.”
“So many young people, coming to Wicca,” said Bethany. “That’s really nice. How sincere do they seem? Are they just flirting with it, or do you think they take it seriously?”
“Both,” I said. “Some are more sincere than others. Some are more sincere than they realize. Some are less sincere than they realize. I’ll leave it up to you to figure it out — I don’t want to prejudice you.”
Bethany nodded and sipped her wine. “Tell me about Morgan.”
I paused for a few moments. How to put this? “Well, she’s powerful,” I said lamely. “She grew up in a Catholic family. She only started studying Wicca five months ago — and only found out about being a blood witch maybe four months ago. And she was, you know, involved with Selene Belltower and her son.”
I tried to keep my face neutral as I said this. Cal hadn’t been dead long enough. Anytime I thought of Cal and Morgan together, of his convincing her he loved her, of the black plans he and Selene had for her, an overwhelming rage came over me and shattered my usual self-control.
“Yes,” said Bethany, her dark eyes on me. As with Alyce, I got the impression that she wasn’t missing much. “I’d be interested in meeting her.”
“In my opinion,” I went on, “Morgan desperately needs to learn as much as she can as fast as she can. It’s nerve-racking being around her, feeling like she could blink and make a building collapse.”
“She’s as powerful as that?” Bethany looked very interested.
“I think so. This is someone who has had barely any instruction, who’s uninitiated and who has never even thought about going through the Great Trial. Someone who grew up having no idea of her powers, her heritage.”
“Yet she shows such great promise?”
“She lights fires with her mind,” I said, shrugging helplessly. “No one taught her how to do that. She has an inherent knowledge of power chants and other quite complicated spells that would be very difficult for a well-educated witch to do. She scries with fire. And a few weeks ago, she shape-shifted.”
“Holy Mother,” Bethany breathed. “What did she shift into?”
“A wolf.”
For a few minutes Bethany Malone and I sat looking at each other, drinking our wine.“Goddess,” Bethany said finally.
“Yeah,” I said wryly. “It gets rather tense sometimes.”
“I see,” she said. “Tell me a bit about how you conduct your circles.”
I went over our usual rites, our check-ins and meditation and energy-raising. Bethany listened attentively as I briefed her on the lessons I had led so far, about basic correspondences, purifying the circle, focusing skills. “Kithic has had some ups and downs,” I concluded. “But in general the members are co
ming together in an interesting way, and I’m committed to helping them as long as they want to continue and as long as I’m in the States. It would be easy for them to get off track if they missed several circles.”
“Yes,” Bethany agreed. She set down her empty glass. “I’m intrigued, Hunter. I want to meet Morgan. I’m curious to meet these kids. I’d be happy to take over your circles while you’re gone.”
Relief flooded my body. Instinctively I felt that Bethany would bring good energy to the group, and the fact that she was recommended by Alyce set my mind at ease. “Brilliant,” I said. “Thanks very much. The circles meet every Saturday night at seven, but the location changes. This Saturday it’ll be at Jenna Ruiz’s house—I’ll give you directions.”
I left half an hour later, a huge weight off my shoulders. Bethany was both strong and sensible; Kithic, and especially Morgan, would be safe in her hands.
“What time is it there?” I asked. I had called Sky when I got home but guessed I hadn’t calculated the time difference correctly. Sky sounded sleepy and uncharitable.
“It’s. .” I pictured her craning around for a clock. “It’s oh-dark-thirty,” she finally said irritably. “What’s up?”
Sky and I had grown up together; though I had two siblings and she had four, we were the same age and had compatible temperaments. Though neither of us was much given to sappy emotional outbursts, we were as close as brother and sister, and we both knew it. Now I told her my news as briefly as possible, picturing her almond-shaped black eyes widening under her golden eyebrows.
“Oh, Gìomanach,” she breathed, lapsing into my coven name, the name she had called me through childhood. “Oh, Goddess, I don’t believe it—after all this time.”
“Yeah. I leave on Saturday. It’s about an eleven-hour drive, I think.”