Strife s-9

by Cate Tiernan

  “It was real enough that I nearly drove the car off the road.” Hunter’s voice was certain, but I remembered the flash of doubt I’d felt that morning.

  Erin sat back and pressed her lips together. She sat perfectly still, and with her pale skin and delicate features, she looked almost like she was made of marble.

  “Do you think it was Ciaran?” Sky asked. Her oval face was tense.

  “Perhaps,” Erin said. Her gaze locked on my face.

  The look made my stomach lurch. I felt afraid and defensive at the same time. “Do you think it was me?” I demanded.

  Erin was unperturbed. “Perhaps,” she replied coolly.

  I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Erin cut me off. “Morgan, I merely said it was a possibility. You may be causing these incidents unconsciously—we simply can’t rule it out. But right now, only two things are certain: strange things are happening, and they seem to involve you.”

  “Or Hunter,” I pointed out.

  “That’s true,” Hunter agreed. He quickly described what had happened in the movie theater a few nights before.

  Erin seemed to ponder this a moment. “It seems that someone is trying to get in touch with one of you,” she said. “Perhaps it’s time we went looking for them.”

  “Should we scry?” Hunter asked.

  “The sooner the better, I should think,” Erin said. She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a small stone bowl filled with water. I was intrigued by the fact that she chose to scry with water—I’d heard most witches found it unreliable.

  We joined hands, and Erin began to chant as we gazed into the water. I’d never heard the words before, and they had an ancient quality that was both beautiful and terrifying. Although I didn’t understand exactly what she was saying, I felt certain that Erin was calling on whoever was interfering with us to reveal him- or herself.

  The water shimmered, and for a moment it almost seemed to glow silvery pink. The clock on the wall ticked on, but nothing happened. Erin began her low chant again, and this time Sky joined her. Still nothing.

  Hunter sat to my left, and after a few moments I felt a shudder run through him. I squeezed his hand. I knew that he thought the strange incidents might have been messages for him from his parents. I knew that he was hoping they were— and that by scrying we would see them. I was struck with the irony of it—Hunter was hoping to see his father, while I was terrified to see my own. Hunter shuddered again. I turned to look at him just as a wave of pain and fear washed over me. It was flowing from him. He groaned and fell backward against the floor, as if he were being held there. Sweat broke out over his face, which had gone deadly white.

  “Hunter!” I cried.

  Erin leaned over Hunter and peered into his face as I brushed damp golden hair away from his forehead. Sky hurried behind him and put his head in her lap. Hunter moaned and began to say something. I didn’t catch the beginning of it, but I heard him murmur something that sounded like, “Troptardeef.” Then there was a string of words that made no sense to me.

  I dug my fingernails into my palms. Goddess, please help him, I begged silently.

  Hunter’s body shuddered once more, then he lay still. His breathing was labored and ragged for a moment, then began to slow. Finally he opened his eyes. Looking up at me, he murmured, “What happened?”

  I swallowed hard, unsure how to answer.

  “Did you see anything?” Erin asked brusquely.

  Hunter struggled to his elbows, and Sky helped him sit upright. He rubbed his head, then said, “Shadows. There was a narrow street, with cobblestones. And there was a wall. I. . I was in a walled city.”

  “You said something,” Erin informed him. “Do you remember what it was?”

  Hunter shook his head. “No—I just remember the shadows. . and the feelings. What did I say?”

  “You said, ‘It’s too late—there’s nothing I can do,’ ” Erin replied. “In French.”

  Hunter stared at her. “I don’t speak French,” he said.

  Erin didn’t reply to that. “Do you know why this happened? ” she asked.

  “No,” Hunter replied. Then he said, “No,” again, but his voice was less certain.

  Erin leaned toward him. “Do you think you know why this happened?”

  “I think it may have been one of my parents, trying to contact me,” Hunter admitted.

  “Hunter.” Sky’s voice was almost a gasp. “Are you sure?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “No, I’m not. That’s only what I think it was. But it could be anything.”

  The words settled over me like a cold weight, sinking into my bones. A feeling came over me—it was the same feeling I’d had the night before, when Hunter and I had rounded the bend in the road. It was a deep feeling of dread.

  I reached for Hunter’s hand and felt slightly better at the familiar warmth of his touch. I was worried for him. But more than that, I was worried about the future. Worried about us. I didn’t know what the messages meant. . but I had a horrible feeling that their power was great enough to tear us apart.

  “Morgan, I think we had better begin our lessons as soon as possible,” Erin said. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes, of course. Where should we meet?” I asked. “Here?”

  “Actually,” Hunter broke in, “Alyce suggested that you hold your lessons in the back room of Practical Magick. She thought it might be a good idea in case you need any books or tools.”

  I nodded. “That works for me.”

  “For me as well,” Erin said.

  Everyone was subdued as we said good night. Sky seemed particularly pensive. As I laced up my heavy boots and pulled on my jacket, I wondered what she was thinking.

  “That was frustrating,” I said as Hunter walked me to Das Boot.

  “I know,” he agreed. “I just wish we knew what all of this meant.”

  I remembered the violence of exploding lightbulbs and kamikaze books. Could Hunter’s parents really have been behind those things? It seemed unlikely. I thought of my own father—Ciaran. That sort of violence was more his style.

  As if he’d been reading my mind, Hunter said, “Morgan, I heard from Eoife this afternoon. The council has found out Ciaran is definitely in Spain. They’re closing in. It’s only a matter of time before they have him in custody. Eoife said to tell you they couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Relief swept over me, followed by anger, startling me with its strength. Anger at the council for making me spy on my own father. Anger at Ciaran for all the evil he had done, for the taint he had passed on to me. Anger at myself for the tug of kinship I still felt for him. “Oh, no problem. I’m great at spying on my relatives,” I said bitterly. “Just let me know if you need any info on Mary K.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Hunter said quietly. “You did right, even though it was hard.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to let Hunter’s voice calm me. I knew my father was dangerous. But when I was with Ciaran, I’d felt a strange connection—something I’d never felt before. Knowing that this man was my real father, that his blood ran in my veins, had given me a visceral sense of belonging. I felt that I knew Ciaran almost better than I knew the members of my adopted family because part of him was in me.

  And I knew his true name.

  The thought echoed up from the depths of my mind. I knew Ciaran’s true name. He’d said it in a forbidden spell he’d used when he was trying to win me to his side.

  When you know someone’s true name, you can control him.

  I had never told Hunter. I could have told him right then. I could have said Ciaran’s true name. But I didn’t. They already have the sigil, I told myself. Hunter’s right; they’re going to capture him soon. They don’t need his true name.

  “If Ciaran is the one sending these messages,” Hunter said fiercely, “he will be very, very sorry.” His words slashed through the chill air like a blade.

  “Do you wish you were there
—in Spain, tracking him?” I asked. I had seen Hunter put the braigh on Cal once, and once on David Redstone. The spelled silver chain burned witches’ skin, raising angry red blisters. I knew that Hunter hadn’t enjoyed using it either time. But now I wondered how he would feel putting it on the wrists of the man who’d almost killed both of us more than once.

  “My job is to protect you,” Hunter said simply. “According to the council, that is my sole responsibility for the moment.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Hunter gazed at the hulking forms of the trees, and I suddenly realized the full weight of what he was saying. He thought he was receiving messages from his parents. And he couldn’t do anything about it because he had to stay in Widow’s Vale to take care of me. That had to be incredibly frustrating. More. It had to be agonizing.

  “Can’t you tell the council how important this is to you?” I asked. “If they catch Ciaran, I won’t be in danger anymore.”

  Hunter shook his head, not looking at me. “The council wants me here.”

  I looked at him, feeling a rush of sympathy. I thought of how very young Hunter had been when his parents had disappeared. I could only imagine how fiercely he wanted them back. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Hunter didn’t speak. He just reached out, took my hand, and brought it briefly to his lips before letting it go.

  “I’ll help you find them,” I said.

  “Good,” was the last thing he said before retreating up his front walk. He didn’t look back as I got in my car and drove away.

  5. Forces

  Morgan lost it last night. I don’t know if she went crazy or if her powers short-circuited or something, but things started flying around the room and exploding, and it scared the holy crap out of me.

  Now I don’t know what to do. The circle started off really well. I don’t know much about Wicca, but there’s something about it that feels almost like a tune I only half remember from childhood. The words are long forgotten, but if I try hard enough, I’ll remember the melody, and everything will fall into place.

  That’s what the way I felt last night… for a while.

  Morgan’s magick feels like something else. I’m afraid of it in the way I used to be afraid of leaving my closet door open when I was five years old.

  I wish she’d just leave the coven. Then Mary K. would feel better and I wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore.

  — Alisa

  Mr. Powell waited until the last five minutes of class to pass back the graded exams.

  The class buzzed as he made his way around the room, placing papers facedown on desks. “Well done,” he whispered to Claire Kennedy, and, “Great job,” to Andy Nasewell. Hope fluttered in my chest. Andy wasn’t a great student. Maybe I hadn’t done as badly as I thought.

  Mr. Powell slapped a paper on my desk. His hand was still a moment as he looked down at me. “See me after class,” he said. Crap. I turned the paper over, my heart thumping. At the top there was a big red number. Sixty-three.

  The bell rang and everyone streamed out of the classroom, comparing papers and chatting. Quickly I shoved my exam inside my binder and shuffled up to Mr. Powell’s desk. I could hardly even look at him.

  “Morgan,” he said, folding his arms on his desk, “we’ve spoken about this before. Your grade in this class has dropped significantly since first semester, and I’d hoped to see more improvement.” Mr. Powell looked up at me. He was a good teacher—the kind who really seemed to care about his students—and he looked concerned.

  “I know I messed up,” I replied. “I’ve just been a little. . overwhelmed lately.”

  “This was the second of four major exams for this marking period,” Mr. Powell said. “The exams are what determine your final grade.”

  I did a quick mental calculation. Even if I got a hundred on each of the other two exams, my final average would be a seventy-eight. Seventy-eight. That was pretty far from my usual honor roll standards.

  “You do realize, Morgan, that junior-year grades are what most colleges look at when they are determining admissions, ” Mr. Powell went on. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to let your parents know about this.”

  Oh, no. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “Some extra credit or something?”

  Mr. Powell thought for a moment. “I don’t like to give one person a shot at extra credit without giving the whole class the same chance,” he said slowly.

  “I’m sure other people would like to bring up their grades,” I suggested.

  Mr. Powell sighed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll announce it to the class tomorrow. Write a five- to eight-page paper on any historical subject for a maximum of twenty extra points on the next exam.”

  I stifled a groan. Twenty points. That didn’t sound like much. But when I did the average in my head along with two other perfect exams, I realized I could end up with an eighty-three average for the marking period—a B. It would be tough, but I could do it. “Thanks, Mr. Powell,” I said quickly, and turned toward the door.

  “Morgan,” he called after me.

  “Yes?” I paused in the doorway.

  He looked at me over the tops of his bifocals. “Make it good,” he said.

  “Did you talk to Robbie?” I asked Bree as we walked out of English. It was our last class. I hadn’t seen her or Robbie all day, except from a distance—neither one of them was at the usual spot in the morning or at lunch, either.

  Bree hugged her notebooks to her chest. “No,” she admitted. She was wearing a long black leather skirt and a woolly black sweater with a plunging neckline, and it made her look mysterious and a little sad.

  I wasn’t all that surprised. Bree hated “relationship” talks. “Why not?”

  “To be honest, Robbie was pretty freaked out by the circle on Saturday,” Bree said. “Yesterday didn’t really seem like the best time for a chat, you know?”

  “Bree, you need to talk to him,” I said.

  “I know, I know.” Bree hesitated, her dark eyes clouding over. “Actually,” she said finally, “I think maybe you should talk to Robbie. That scene at the circle scared the crap out of him. God, Morgan, it scared the crap out of everyone. Me too.”

  “But that wasn’t me,” I insisted. “It scared me, too.”

  We stood there in the hall for a moment, just staring at each other as students streamed past us. I had no idea what to say. Finally Bree reached out and grabbed my hand. “Look, Morgan. If you say it wasn’t you, then I believe it. I’ll talk to Robbie for you. But you should know that he’s worried about you, and so am I.” To my dismay, her eyes filled with tears. Bree wasn’t a big weeper. “We’re friends, right?”

  I swallowed hard. “Right.”

  “Okay.” Bree gave me a watery smile. “I’ll talk to him. About both things.”

  She dropped my hand and turned toward her locker. I trudged to mine, silently cursing these strange things that kept happening. I was as afraid of them as everyone else. Yet everyone thought I was behind them.

  Standing in front of my locker, I felt a faint, icy breeze blow past me. The small hairs at the back of my neck rose. Had anyone else felt it? To my right, I saw Cindy Halpern struggling with her locker combination. Maybe it was just my imagination.

  I spun the lock and yanked on my locker door. It swung open with a bang. I jumped back to avoid the avalanche of books and papers that cascaded out.

  “God, Morgan,” Cindy said, rolling her eyes at the mess, “get a Trapper Keeper.”

  I ignored her. My instincts were clamoring. It was true that my locker was a royal disaster, but the way my stuff had shot out of it. . I peered down the hall to see if other strange things were happening, but all I saw was students shoving books into backpacks and pulling on jackets. I cast my senses, but I didn’t sense any sort of sinister presence. Frowning, I eyed the mess on the floor. Maybe it really was just the result of a locker that hadn’t been cl
eaned out in a while. I bent and started gathering papers.

  “Need some help?” asked a voice behind me.

  I glanced up as Alisa crouched and began stacking my books. “This looks like the bottom of my dad’s closet,” she said. Her voice was heavy, and she seemed tired.

  I stopped gathering my papers and looked at her. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Alisa frowned. “Actually, no,” she said. “I–I wanted to tell you. . I’m leaving the coven.”

  I was so surprised, I sat down on the floor. “You are?” I asked. The image of Bree with tears in her eyes, telling me that Robbie was worried about me, clicked into my brain. “Why?” I asked carefully.

  Alisa ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her oval face. “Things are just going too far for me.” She looked down at the floor, then up at me. “The magick I’ve seen lately. . it scares me. These are powerful forces, Morgan.” She leaned toward me until I could see myself reflected in her eyes. “They’re dangerous.”

  I got the feeling that Alisa wanted me to promise that nothing frightening would happen at a circle again. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have any idea what had caused the strange magick on Saturday—and I certainly didn’t have any control over it. “I’m sorry, Alisa,” I said finally. “I guess you have to do what’s right for you.”

  Alisa looked at me a moment and then nodded. “Okay. But I just wanted to tell you. . I have a bad feeling. The magick you’ve been practicing is bad for everyone. I’m talking about the whole coven,” she said in a low voice. “I think you should stop what you’re doing. Be careful, Morgan.”

  “Yeah, Morgan, be careful,” said a voice above us. It was Mary K., her book bag slung over one shoulder. I tried to read the expression on my sister’s face. Mary K. and I hadn’t had a real conversation since the night of Hunter’s dinner, but I’d felt that she was softening toward me a bit—and now she was obviously here so I would give her a ride home. I hoped she hadn’t overheard anything just now that would freak her out again.

  “What does Morgan have to be careful about?” Mary K. asked Alisa.