by Cate Tiernan
"I had an international phone call just as I was leaving the house," I explained truthfully, sliding into the remaining seat at our small table.
Robin glanced at Celia, and when I focused my senses, I picked up on feelings of nervousness, fear, and guilt. Once again I found myself intrigued. What was it they wanted, exactly?
"Why don't you get something to drink and then we'll talk," Celia suggested. I nodded and went to the counter. While I waited for my tea, I looked around the small café. Only one other table was occupied. Celia and Robin had chosen a table in the far corner, and each of them was sitting with her back to a wall.
I carried my huge cup over and sat down. I stirred in two packets of sugar and waited for one of the witches to speak. They kept glancing at each other, as if communicating telepathically, but they weren't, I didn't think. I waited, trying to look unconcerned. People want to talk. I'd found that out as a Seeker. Simply waiting was often a far more effective means of getting information than a hard-edged interrogation.
"Thank you for coming," Celia said at last. "When you were late, we wondered if you'd changed your mind."
"No," I said mildly, taking a sip of tea. "I would have called."
"We need you to promise you won't do anything without our permission," Robin blurted, an anxious look on her round face.
I met her gaze calmly. "Why don't you just explain what's going on?"
Celia leaned forward, the smooth planes of her face taut with tension. "Can we trust you?" she asked, her voice low and intent.
"Do you practice dark magick?" I asked, and she drew back.
"No," she said in surprise.
"Then you can trust me." I took another big sip.
"It isn't us," Robin said. There was so much anxiety coming off her that I was starting to feel jumpy myself. I kept casting out my senses to be aware of any possible danger nearby. But there was nothing.
"You said it was your coven leader," I said.
"Yes, and we need you to promise that you won't...harm her," Robin went on. Celia gave her a sharp glance, and Robin looked down and began twisting her hands together in her lap.
"I would never harm anyone," I said. "Unless they posed a threat." I couldn't figure out what these two were getting at. Of course, if I found witch practicing dark magick that might hurt someone, I had an obligation to turn them in to the council to have their powers stripped. As little faith as I had in the council these days, I still knew how important it was to prevent anyone from causing harm.
Robin glanced at Celia nervously, and the two of them seemed to be considering my reply. Finally Celia looked around as if to make sure we were alone. Then her clear brown eyes met mine. "We're both members of Willowbrook, a mixed coven up in Thornton."
Thornton was a town about forty minutes away, north and east from Widow's Vale. A mixed coven meant that not only was it blood witches and nonblood witches, but also blood witches of different clans. I was sure Willowbrook had been mentioned casually by people I'd talked to, but nothing in my memory triggered any negative reaction.
I nodded. "Go on."
Celia continued a low tone. "For the last seventeen years Willowbrook has been led by a gifted Brightendale named Patrice Pearson."
"How long have you each been in the coven?" I asked. I had been around them enough now to realize that though they seemed to know each other well, there was a distance between them. They were covenmates but not best friends, and they certainly weren't lovers.
"Eighteen years," Celia answered.
"Twelve," said Robin.
"And there's a problem?" I asked.
"Patrice is wonderful," Robin said earnestly, leaning closer to me. Her round brown eyes were once again surrounded by complicated makeup.
"But..." I said leadingly, and Celia looked annoyed.
"But nothing," she said shortly. "Patrice *is* wonderful. She's so...warm. Giving, helpful, caring, full of joy and life." She paused.
"I went through a very difficult personal situation a few years ago, and I don't know what I would have done without Patrice."
"We all just love her so much," Robin said. "We're all so close as a coven. Most of us have been together for at least ten years or more. Patrice just brings us closer and makes us all feel-" She looked for the word. "Loved. Even-About six years ago Patrice went through an ugly divorce we were all so surprised. But even through all that, she came to circle each week without fail. Every week.And led our circle with generosity and joy."
"She's an exceptional leader," Celia said simply. "She has exceptional clarity and focus." I was starting to get a bad feeling about the perfect Patrice.
"But lately," Celia said, and she and Robin exchanged glances one more time. "Lately she's been different."
I relaxed in my chair. Now that the dam had been breached, everything else would follow. I projected feelings of calm, of being nonjudgmental.
"she's unchanged in most ways, but sometimes-it's almost as if someone else is looking out through her eyes."
All my senses went on alert.
"Circles are different, too," said Robin. "They've always been the high point of my week. Energizing. Life affirming."
"But lately several of us have noticed that after circles, we feel unusually drained," Celia said looking at her long, slim fingers wrapped around her mug. "Sometimes some of us have to lie down afterward. One night a few weeks ago Robin and I finally mentioned it to each other and found we were feeling the same things. So we decided to try to find help. Discreet help. We can't say what's wrong or even if anything's wrong. But it doesn't feel completely right anymore, either."
"Of course, Patrice has been under an awful lot of pressure," Robin said. Joshua-her son, he's eleven now-was diagnosed last year with Leukemia. He underwent a bone-marrow transplant about eight months ago."
"Now he has host-versus-graft disease," Celia went on.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Well, they matched Joshua up with a donor," Celia said. "Then they did massive chemo and radiation to kill all the cancer-causing cells. It killed all of Joshua's own bone marrow, too. Then the donor's cancer-free marrow was implanted in him. It's working, in that it's producing white blood cells and boosting his immune system. Unfortunately, this marrow's white blood cells have identified Joshua himself as being foreign, and the marrow is attacking virtually every system in his body."
Her voice was tight with pain, and I reflected on the fact that both of these women must have known Patrice when Joshua was first born and had probably known about or been involved in his upbringing for the last eleven years. Now he was deathly ill. It wasn't only Patrice who was feeling the strain.
"It's a different kind of sickness from the cancer," Celia said. "But still awful. It could kill him."
"He's in such pain, such misery," Robin said, her voice wavering. "But even with all this, Patrice has missed only two or three circles in the past year."
"I offered to take over leading the circles for a while, to give her a break," said Celia. "I'm the most senior member of the coven. But she refused."
"That's how loyal she is, how dedicated," Robin said.
"What do the other coven members say?" I asked.
"I know some of them feel something's wrong," said Celia. "No one's said anything to me outright. The thing is, every once in a while it seems fine. It almost made me wonder if I was just imagining things or coming down with the flu myself."
"But I felt all the same things," Robin said. "And last week I heard someone else whisper a concern about it."
"If something negative is affecting all the coven members...we have to figure out what," Celia said firmly.
"We know Patrice is a good person," Robin put in quickly. "We just think she needs help, maybe."
I frowned, sipping my tea. This did not sound good. Of course, there might be some benign, rational explanation. And it would be wonderful if that were true. But instinctively I felt there was more to this.
"What is
it you want me to do?" I asked carefully.
"We want you to...figure out what's going on," Celia said, and Robin nodded. "As a former Seeker, you would have investigative skills, knowledge about the different paths witches take, ideas about how to confront Patrice if it's necessary."
"If she's strayed a little, we can help her get back on the right path," Robin said.
"Or maybe just figure out how to protect her from herself," Celia suggested. "Or protect us from her. We don't know, really. We just know we need help."
"And we need to keep this very, very quiet," Robin said urgently. "We don't want you to go to the council, even if you have affiliations. Patrice is a good person. She just needs help."
I rubbed my chin while I thought. "I don't know whether I can promise that. If I discover that Patrice is involved in something dangerous...I'm no longer a Seeker, but I still have an obligation, as a blood witch with a conscience." I leaned back, and Celia and Robin both seemed to deflate a bit.
"Well..." Robin glanced at Celia hesitantly.
"We don't...we don't want anyone to be hurt," Celia assured me. "Perhaps...what if you make no promises, except that you won't harm anybody unnecessarily and you won't let anyone else be harmed?"
I sighed and considered her words. Well, at the very least, I could certainly track down more answers than they had now. "That goes without saying. Maybe I can look into it," I agreed. "See what I can come up with. But if Patrice is mixed up in something dangerous-I simply can't let her continue."
Celia nodded tightly. "Of course. We just-"
"If there's another option other than calling in the council, we want to explore it," Robin said, nervously picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "You know, we don't want to see her...hurt."
"Nobody wants to see anyone hurt," I assured her.
The two women sat back, relief emanating from them like perfume.
Blimey, I thought. What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?
5
Morgan
I'm in a huge house, huge like the palace of Versailles. I keep running down corridors, sure I know the way out, but no matter where I go, I only end up in more corridors, more halls, more rooms that lead nowhere. I feel like something's after me-I'm running away from something, but I don't know what or who. I'm cold, and my bare feet make no sound on the smooth floors. Several times I stop o look out a window, to try to get my bearings, maybe see someone who could help me. Each time I see dream walls floating outside, like stage scenery. They're scrawled over with runes, sigils, words, and magickal drawings, drawings that frighten me, even though I don't know what they are. Then I look out a window and see a hawk swooping down to attack. I don't know why, but this sigil chills me to the very bone.
I begin to run down the corridors again. As I pass each enormous window, curtains burst into flames behind me. Is this house going to burn down with me in it? I need to get out of here, to escape. I'm so alone, so cold, so scared. Why can't I find my way out? What's after me? What's that dark, horribly shadow? The fire is crackling behind me, more shadows flickering on the walls ahead of me. I'm going to burn.
I woke myself up yelling something like, Goddess, help me! I was in my bed, sweating and clammy and icy all at the same time. I wondered if I had shouted out loud, but no one came to check, so I guessed I hadn't. I felt panicky and kept looking at my windows to make sure my shades weren't on fire. I drank some water in the bathroom and lay back down on my bed. I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, and then I went back to sleep until it was time to meet everyone for the day's picnic.
That was right. I had considered telling Hunter about it at our picnic, but suddenly it seemed so silly. Obviously I've been through a lot of stress lately. Who wouldn't have weird dreams?
This night will be different, I promised myself. I was trying to quiet whatever demons I was carrying around in my mind. I had taken a relaxing bath. I was trying to think good thoughts, to concentrate on positive things.
It was ten-thirty. I had reviewed some of my history notes in preparation for finals, figuring if that didn't put me to a sound sleep, nothing would.
"Good night, honey," Mom said, poking her head in my open door.
"Night, Mom," I said. I heard Mary K. brushing her teeth in the bathroom we shared, and I turned off my light, taking comfort in the familiar sounds. I thrashed around until I was comfortable and in the perfect Morgan sleeping position. Now for good thoughts.
The day had been so great. I'd gone on a picnic with Hunter, Bree, and Robbie-my three favorite people. Bree and I had never been able to double-date before; though she'd always had boyfriends, I hadn't. And Bree and Robbie's relationship seemed to be going well. I'd never seen either of them so happy.
Okay, I thought. Good thoughts. The picnic had been perfect. And it had gotten only better after Bree and Robbie had taken off. I smiled to myself, thinking about Hunter and me. Goddess, he made me crazy. When, when could we be alone together the way we wanted-when would we finally make love?
Sometimes I felt so much love for Hunter that it overwhelmed me and I felt like I was going to cry. He was such a good person, such an ethical person. Such an incredibly talented, knowledgeable witch. I was totally fascinated by everything about him.
I was getting sleepy, and I felt warm and calm. I consciously relaxed every muscle in my body, starting from my toes and working my way up to the top of my head. I repeated my simple little soothing spell: Everything is fine and bright. Day must follow every night. My power keeps me safe from harm, and the Goddess holds me in her arms.
Then I fell asleep.
Frowning, I looked down at the map spread out on the bench seat next to me. I squint, but all the names and roads and markings are blurred. Frustrated, I look through the windshield at the tree-lined road, hoping that some feature of it will become familiar. I shift into third gear, as if moving faster will help me feel less lost. I don't know where I am or where I'm going. I feel sure that I did know when I set out-but the reasoning escapes me now.
Das Boot feels familiar and comforting, moving heavily down the narrow road, but that's the only thing that feels okay. There are gray clouds ahead of me, low and malevolent in the sky, as if a storm is coming. I want to turn and go home but don't know which direction to turn in. And there are no cross streets, anyway-nowhere to turn. Dammit. I look down at my map again, trying to force some of the symbols into focus. They're Gaelic. I recognize a few letters, but none of them make sense. I feel so frustrated, I want to cry. What's wrong with me? I feel so stupid. The seconds slide by and I become more and more anxious, almost panicky. How can I fix this situation?
A sudden hard tap on my back windshield startles me. Carefully, trying not to drive off the road, I turn around to look-and almost scream. A huge, horrible, dark-feathered hawk is on the trunk of my car, its talons scraping paint as it holds on. Its hard golden eyes seem to laser right through me. It looks fierce and hateful and without pity.
I spin around again, ready to stomp on the gas to try to dislodge it, but instead find that I'm now a passenger in the car. Someone else is driving, and I keep trying to see who, but for some reason, whenever I try to look, I can never quite see all the way to the driver's side. Again and again I try, and my gaze keeps sliding away from where the driver is sitting. I can see in front of it and in back of it but not actually the driver's seat itself. Who is this? Am I being kidnapped? A burst of anxiety closes my throat.
A dim gray figure up ahead catches my eye, and I peer at it through my window. Can I signal this person for help? Huge, fat raindrops begin to pelt the windshield like tiny bullets, smacking forcefully against the glass. I lean forward to see who the shape is. I gasp in shock- it's Hunter! Stop! I cry, stop! but the car doesn't even slow down. I see Hunter's face, his eyes locking onto mine, his surprise and concern as we whiz by.
I bang on my window and turn around to yell back at him-I want to stop! I want to come get you, I can't! Tears of fear and anguish roll
down my cheeks. I'm trapped in this car. I need to escape, need to get back to Hunter. Goddess, now I feel awful. I'm angry and in tears and so confused and powerless. I keep thinking, I want to stop, I want to stop, I want to stop.
Up ahead, the road begins a slow curve to the left. Das Boot slows, and impulsively I throw open my door and fling myself from the car. I hear the squeal of breaks, and then I'm rolling down a short embankment covered with sharp-thorned thistles. I tumble to a halt. My arms and legs are scratched, rain is pelting my face and hair, and cautiously I begin to climb toward the road, both hoping Das Boot and its mystery driver are gone and feeling upset that my car might be missing.
But there's something-I feel a warmth on my back. I feel back there with my hand, and I jump back-fire! I look behind me, and there are wings made of fire flowing from my back! Who am I?
No car is on the road. Evening is sweeping in like a cape, flowing over the land. I make it to the road and begin to run back toward where I saw Hunter. I have to see him, to explain. I don't care what happens to me as long as I'm with him. I have to tell him that I wanted to stop, that I never would have passed him if I'd had a choice. I've abandoned my car in order to come tell him.
Soon my lungs burn for oxygen, and my running slows. I look behind me, and my fire wings are gone. I can't find Hunter, even though I'm screaming for him! I'm sure I've passed by where I saw him. I've gone back and forth a half dozen times, looking for him, calling his name. I'm soaked through and shivering, my skin rough with goose bumps. My feet hurt. I look down, and then the sharp, dark outline of a hawk overshadows the dusky gray of twilight. I feel a sudden, instantaneous terror-the bird is coming for me. I'm its prey! Wildly I look up, my arms already raised to protect myself from its
attack-
-and I woke up in my bed, shaking and flooded with adrenaline. I glanced around in panic, but I immediately realized I was in my room. Confused and terrified, I burst into tears, grabbing my pillow and holding it against me. I'd had another nightmare. I braced myself, trying to remember its terrifying details, but found all that remained was a foggy miasma of fear, of panic. But why? What had it been about? I couldn't remember. The memory was slipping away from me. I punched my pillow in frustration, fresh sobs erupting. I muffled them in my pillow, then flopped down on my bed, crying harder. I don't know how long I cried, but eventually I choked to a watery stop and lay there, exhausted.