by Cate Tiernan
Hunter didn’t respond. Instead he merely closed his eyes, and I knew that he was pouring every ounce of concentration he had into casting out his senses. I leaned back against the plush car seat and did the same. Around us, by the side of the road and into the forest, I cast out with my mind. I felt the heartbeats of a brood of young fox kits, frightened by the footstep of a doe nearby. I sensed a small field mouse and the silent swoop of an owl overhead, diving toward its prey in an elegant, deadly arc. I felt the quietness of the trees, their collective silence that had stood sentry and witness, rooted to that spot, in some cases, for over a century. But there was no human presence in the woods. A shudder rippled through Hunter, and I knew that he had felt what I had. Nothing. “Was it—” Thinking again of Cal, I felt my body grow cold. “Do you think it was—a ghost?” I didn’t even know whether such a thing was possible, but Hunter didn’t laugh at me. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly.
Something about his tone of voice made me ask, “Do you think it could be another message from your parents?”
For a moment Hunter was silent. “Yes,” he said finally. “It could be. But it could also have been
a number of other things.” I realized that Hunter was holding back, but I didn’t ask him what he
was thinking. I could guess. Amyranth. Ciaran. “I think we should tell Erin about this,” he said. At the mention of her name, a mental image of Erin’s appraising glance flashed through my mind, and I felt a small pinprick of impatience. But I immediately pushed the feeling aside. Hunter was right, and I knew it. “When can we meet?” I asked. “Are you free tomorrow night?” Hunter asked, and I nodded. That was the last thing we said as the car plodded forward at its snail’s pace. Wrapped in fog, the night had a sense of unreality, and I was so, so glad to have Hunter sitting next to me—strong and sure, like the trees that loomed in the mist, standing guard over the forest. The next day dawned clear and chilly, with a pale blue sky dotted with puffy clouds. Last fall’s brown, brittle leaves danced by my windowpane on the breeze. It was such a beautiful day, the incidents of the night before seemed unreal . . . and unlikely. Had everyone really freaked out over a few lightbulbs bursting? That could have been an electrical surge—a problem in the wiring at Hunter’s house. And the figure in the fog could have just been an odd mist formation. Clouds took on strange shapes all the time, I reminded myself. I lay in bed, enjoying the warmth of my flannel sheets and down comforter, listening for the sounds of my parents and sister as they went through their usual Sunday routine of showers and breakfasts. But the house was silent. Rolling over, I glanced at my digital clock. Nine forty-seven! They hadn’t even bothered waking me for church. I lay back against my pillows, unsure how I felt about that. Wicca was my religion, after all, the religion that felt like home to me, as natural as breathing. And I hadn’t been going to church much lately. Still, our church filled me with warm feelings. It held lots of good memories for me, memories of my family and of my community. Suddenly I felt like the last child to be picked up from a party—neglected and forgotten. I knew the feeling was childish, but I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t so much that I really wanted to go to church. I just wanted to beasked. Slowly I crept out of bed, moving aside my cat, Dagda’s, warm, furry form. He mewed softly, then stretched and rolled onto his back, only to curl up again and doze off. What a life. After a long, steamy shower I began to feel almost human again. I puttered around the house awhile, reading the paper and microwaving myself a bowl of oatmeal. Desperate to talk to somebody, I called Robbie, but he wasn’t home and I didn’t leave a message. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Finally I decided to meet my parents for brunch at the Widow’s Diner. It was a tradition for my family to eat there after church. This would be a good chance to show my mom that I could spend time with the family and still be involved in Wicca. Besides, I wanted to see them.
Quickly I pulled on a gray cable-knit sweater and my faded jeans. I put on my thickest socks and sank my feet into my heavy brown boots. In just a few minutes I was in Das Boot, tearing up the road on the way to the Widow’s Diner.
As I walked into the diner, my stomach squirmed with nerves. Between Mary K being mad at me and the lecture I’d gotten from my mom, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I glanced around and saw that my family was sitting in our usual spot—the booth against the windows. They were all laughing at something someone had said. Across from my mom and dad was the back of Mary K.’s head . . . and someone else, a girl with thick, golden brown hair. I stopped short. Who was that? Then my mom looked up and saw me. She looked surprised and pleased. She waved me over.
Mary K. turned around in her seat. After a moment she flashed me an uncertain smile, and the
nervous caterpillars in my stomach quieted. Had she forgiven me? I hoped so. I grinned back and hurried toward them. The other girl still hadn’t looked up, so I didn’t see until I got to the table that it was Alisa.
“Hi, everyone,” I said, sliding into the booth next to Mary K. The Formica tabletop was littered with my family’s half-eaten lunch. “Hey, Alisa,” I added when she didn’t look up from the straw wrapper she was fiddling with on the table. For a moment I wondered what she was doing there. But I knew that she went to our church and that she and Mary K. had gotten pretty tight ever since Mary K.’s best friend, Jaycee, had found a boyfriend. Alisa had been close to Jaycee, too, so I guess that made both Alisa and Mary K. boyfriend refugees. Alisa gave me a hesitant smile. “Hi,” she said. There were dark circles under her eyes and a strange note in her voice that brought back the eerie scene from the night before. Instantly I remembered just how real it had all been. Alisa went back to fiddling with her straw wrapper. “Have you eaten yet, sweetie?” my mom asked, and my dad twisted in his seat to flag the waitress down.
“Some oatmeal,” I replied. “I really just came by to see you guys.” “Only oatmeal? Have a bagel,” my mother urged, “or a cup of soup. It’s lunchtime—you should have a bite to eat.”
I realized that my parents wouldn’t be satisfied until I ordered something, so I asked for some wheat toast and chamomile tea. By the time I’d finished ordering, my mom and dad were engrossed in a conversation about some problem she was having with her boss. I turned to say something to Mary K., but now she had her back to me. She was whispering something into Alisa’s ear. My heart sank, and I had the strangest feeling. It was almost as if I were invisible. I sat quietly, staring out the window for a few moments, waiting for my tea. Here I was, right in the middle of my family—and missing them more than ever. I spent the afternoon trying to do all the math homework that I should have done the week before. I actually finished most of it before I drove to Hunter and Sky’s place at eight to meet with Erin.
Hunter let me in. Erin and Sky were sitting on the couch as we walked into the living room. The lamps were glowing with new lightbulbs, and the books sat quietly on their shelves. There was no sign of what had happened the night before. “I’ve already told Sky and Erin about last night’s fog,” Hunter said as I pulled off my jacket and kicked off my duck boots. Padding across the room in my thick socks, I curled up into the corner of the large brown velvet armchair that sat to the side of the couch, pulling my legs beneath me. “You say the shape you saw looked like a woman?” Erin said to Hunter. He nodded. Erin pursed her lips. “Did she say anything?” she asked me abruptly. I flushed slightly under her intense gaze. “No. She didn’t do anything at all,” I said. “She just looked at us a minute and disappeared.”
Erin lifted her eyebrows and turned to Hunter for confirmation. He nodded again. “But there’s no doubt in your mind that this wassomething?” Erin asked. “This wasn’t just some kind of problem with the weather—a strange-looking patch of mist?” “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 l
ike 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 wasme?” 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. Youmaybe 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 youthinkyou 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 thebraighon 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 W
idow’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.
Forces
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.