by Cate Tiernan
“Anyway,” I said with a giggle, “I’ve been suggesting names. If it’s a girl, Alisa Junior. If it’s a boy, Aliso.”
We were still laughing about that one when the back door opened and Morgan came in. She smiled when she saw us, and I made myself smile back. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Morgan. It was mostly that I thought she was kind of dangerous—even though she could be nice and thoughtful sometimes. Morgan is a witch, a real witch. Some kids around here are—they call themselves blood witches because they’re born to it, like having blue eyes or bad skin. Mary K. isn’t, because though they are sisters, Morgan was adopted.
Morgan and some other kids from my high school (Mary K. is a freshman, I’m a sophomore, and Morgan is a junior) even have their own coven, called Kithic. I had been to circles with Kithic and had thought they were so... incredible. Special. Natural, somehow. But I had quit going a while back when Morgan had started making scary things happen, like breaking things without touching them. Like that girl in Carrie. And I saw her make crackling blue energy on her hand once. Mary K. had even told me (in total secret) that she thought Morgan had done something magicky when their aunt’s girlfriend had cracked her head open at an ice rink. Mary K. said that Paula had looked like she was really hurt, and everyone was freaking, but Morgan put her hands on her and fixed her. I mean, how scary is that? It wasn’t anything I wanted to be around.
“Youngsters,” Morgan greeted us with a snobby nod. But she was just kidding—she and Mary K. get along really well.
“You know, Morgan,” Mary K. said with an innocent expression, “I’m the same age younger than you as you are from Hunter. Isn’t that funny?” No one can look more wide-eyed and who-me? than Mary K.
Morgan dropped her backpack on the kitchen table with a heavy thud and gave Mary K. a poisonous look—then they both laughed. I wished I had a sister—no, not one fifteen years younger than me, but a real one, whom I could talk to and hang out with, who could join forces with me against my wicked stepmonster-to-be.
“Studying, are we?” Morgan asked.
“We are,” said Mary K. “Trying to, at least.”
Morgan reached into the fridge and grabbed a Diet Coke. She popped the top and drank, leaning against the counter. Hilary had banished sodas from our house—we were all supposed to eat more healthily than that—and I found myself watching Morgan with envy. I almost wanted to have a soda here just because I could, even though I hate Diet Coke. Morgan set down the can, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and breathed out. She’d gotten her fix.
“You know, watching you do that makes me feel... tainted somehow,” Mary K. observed, and Morgan laughed again.
“Nature’s perfect food,” she said, then got some hamburger out of the fridge and pulled out a big frying pan. When the fridge door shut again, a small gray cat streaked into the room and stood around mewing.
“He heard the fridge,” Mary K. said.
“Hey, Dag, sweetie,” Morgan said, bending down to give him a tiny bit of hamburger. The kitten mewed loudly again, then chowed down, purring hard.
“Are we having tacos?” Mary K. asked.
“Burritos.” Morgan opened the package and dumped the meat into the pan.
“The Hiliminator can’t stand the smell of meat lately,” I said, feeling a thin new layer of irritation settle over me. “Or fried food. Or spicy food. It makes her sick. We’re down to like three acceptable food items at my house: bread, rice, and crackers.”
Morgan nodded as sympathetically as Mary K. had. “You can come over here and eat real food whenever you want.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So you’re going to ask Mark out?” I asked Mary K.
“I guess,” said Mary K.
“He’s cute,” said Morgan. She put a cutting board on the table, elbowing her backpack out of the way. The top hadn’t been fastened tight, and a couple of books and notebooks spilled out. I glanced at them as she pushed the bag aside and set a block of cheddar cheese on the board, along with a grater. “Grate,” she told Mary K.
“I’m doing my homework,” Mary K. pointed out.
“You’re talking about cute guys. Grate.”
The books in Morgan’s backpack caught my eye. One was an advanced calc book; then there were two spiral notebooks with doodles on the covers, and another, green-covered book, like an old-fashioned diary, peeped out from underneath those.
“Oh, did you notice Mom’s crocuses out front?” Morgan asked, rolling up her sleeves. As usual, she looked like Morgan of the Mounties, in a plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, and clogs. Somehow it looked okay on her. If I wore that, I would look like a truck driver.
Mary K. shook her head, busily grating.“What about ’em?”
“They’re dying, dead,” said Morgan. She pulled her long brown hair out of the way, braided it in back of her head, and snapped an elastic on the end. “They only started blooming last week, ’cause it’s been so cold. The crocuses were up and the hyacinths were starting to to poke out—now they’re all brown lumps.”
“It hasn’t frozen lately, has it?” Mary K. asked.
Morgan shook her head. “Mom’s going to be bummed when she sees it. Maybe they have some kind of disease.” She started slicing a head of lettuce, making long strips suitable for burritoing.
“Hmmm,” said Mary K.
I was listening to all this with only one ear because I just couldn’t stop looking at Morgan’s books. Not books, really. Book. It was freaky, but I was just dying to know what that green book was. I couldn’t think about anything else until I figured it out. I didn’t even know I was reaching for it when I finally realized Mary K. had been saying, “Alisa? Alisa?”
“Oh, what? Sorry,” I said as Morgan turned around from the stove.
“I was saying that if you liked someone, too, then maybe we could all go out, the four of us, and then it wouldn’t be so weird for me and Mark,” she repeated.
“Oh.” The words barely even registered. All I could think was green book, green book, green book. What was wrong with me? I tried to shake it off. “Um, well, I don’t really like anyone. And no one likes me,” I admitted. “I mean, people like me, but no guys specifically like me.”
Mary K. frowned.“Why not? You’re such a cutie.”
I laughed. I knew I wasn’t hideous—my dad is Hispanic, and I have his dark eyes and olive skin. My mom was Anglo, so my hair is a honey-streaked brown. I’m kind of different looking, but I don’t make babies scream. But so far my sophomore year at Widow’s Vale High had been a total bust, guys-wise. “I don’t know.”
“Morgan, do you know any guys, like friends of friends, that maybe we could set something up with?” Mary K. went on, and my mind and eyes wandered again to the stupid green book. What was it? I wanted to know. I needed to know. I shook my head silently, wondering what was going on. Why was I being so weird? It was like this crazy green book was invading my mind. Was this a temporary thing, or was it going to last? Years from now, was I going to be sitting in a padded cell somewhere, babbling, “Green book, green book, green book”? It was probably just some horrible extra-credit calc or something.
“That’s a cool book,” I heard Morgan say, and my head snapped up to see her and Mary K. both looking at me. I jerked back my hand, realizing with embarrassment that I had been reaching for the book again. What was with me? “It’s a Book of Shadows,” Morgan explained, glancing at Mary K., who seemed to take no notice. “I just got it today at Practical Magick.”
I frowned and put both my hands in my lap. Magick. So it was a witch book. Well, that oughta cure me. I’d had enough freaky encounters with witchy things—and witchy people.
“Oh, dang!” Morgan said, turning around with irritation. “I forgot the stupid flavor packet! Well, I’m not going back to the store.”
As she stood, frowning, the refrigerator door swung open. A glass butter dish, complete with butter, crashed to the ground, shattering. We all stared at it.
“Was that propped on som
ething in there?” Mary K. asked.
“It was in the butter thing on the door,” Morgan said, frowning even more.
I jumped up almost without realizing it. Oh, God, not again, I thought as horror filled my veins. Morgan just could not control her powers! She was a walking hazard! I had to get away from her. I hated this kind of stuff. True, this was just a broken butter dish, but I’d seen far worse happen before. Who knew what would happen next? What if she made knives start flying around or something?
“Did you not close the door?” Mary K. persisted. Morgan sighed and tiptoed to the broom closet, taking out a broom and a dustpan. Morgan with a broom, I thought. How appropriate.
“No, I closed it.” Morgan sounded fed up. “I don’t know what happened.”
Uh-huh. And my mom is Queen Elizabeth, I thought.
Morgan scowled down at the broken dish as if she could reconstruct it with her eyes and make it all rush backward and mend itself, like in the movies. Actually, maybe she could. I didn’t know.
“I didn’t—” she began, and then her head lifted. “Hunter,” she said. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she walked out the kitchen door, leaving hamburger sizzling on the stove, a broken butter dish (that she had broken) right there on the floor. A moment later we heard the front door open and shut.
“What about Hunter?” I said.
Mary K. looked a little uncomfortable as she used a paper towel to pick up the glass-encrusted butter and put it in the trash. “Hunter’s here, I guess.”
“Did you hear his car?” I didn’t even know why I was asking. I knew the answer. It was Morgan, Morgan the witch, Morgan and her freaky powers. She’d heard Hunter coming with her superpowerful witchy ears.
Mary K. shrugged and began to sweep up glass. I stood up and turned off the fire under the hamburger, giving the meat a quick stir. Without meaning to, I glanced at the table and was immediately drawn again to the green book. What was it about that book?
3. Morgan
“Young Michael Orris was down to the shore, fetching seaweed for the garden. He looked up and saw a black curtain falling over the land like a sunset. Being a lad of six, he were scared and hid behind a rock. When the sun came out, he ran home to find nothing but broken stones, still smoking. Years later I heard he never made his initiation. Didn’t want to be anything like a witch, not ever.”
— Peg Curran, Tullamore, Ireland, 1937
“You don’t look like a happy camper,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I’d come out without a jacket as soon as I’d felt Hunter’s presence. The thing with the butter dish had totally thrown me—we’d never figured out why the weird telekinetic stuff happened. I was afraid that it might be a sign from Ciaran, just to let me know he was watching. “I’m glad you’re here—something weird just happened—”
“I just came from a meeting with the council,” Hunter uncharacteristically interrupted me. “Kennet flew in yesterday, which is why I couldn’t get hold of him. They called me this morning.”
“What was it about? Did you find out anything about Ciaran?”
“Yes.” Hunter seemed tightly coiled, like a snake, and I felt anger coming off him in heated waves. He strode past my mother’s crumpled crocuses and up onto the porch. “I did.” He reached out to enfold me in his arms. “Apparently Ciaran dismantled the watch sigil two weeks ago. He hasn’t been seen since.”
I pulled back and stared at him. “Two weeks ago?” I choked out. Oh, Goddess. Oh, no. My father could in fact be hiding under my front porch right now. I went rigid with fear. He could have been watching me for almost two weeks now. “Goddess,” I whispered. “And the council didn’t share this because...?”
He shook his head, looking disgusted. “They have no good reason. They said it was on a ‘need to know’ basis. Why they didn’t think you or I needed to know is a complete mystery. I think they’re just embarrassed that he’s slipped through their fingers again. Obviously they should have taken him in before now and stripped his powers. But they were hoping he would lead them to other cells of Amyranth. Now he’s gone.”
The image of Ciaran having his powers stripped was disturbing—I’d seen it happen before, and it was horrifying. But the image of Ciaran coming after me with full powers—maybe being in Widow’s Vale right now—was much, much worse.
“I can’t believe it,” I said, feeling anger rise in me like acid. “Who the hell do they think they are? I don’t need to know my own father is free? When I’m the one who put the watch sigil on him?”
Hunter nodded grimly. “Too right. I don’t know what they’re doing. The council was never intended to be able to act with impunity. They seem to have forgotten that, and that they have a responsibility and an obligation to the witches they represent. Not to mention their own fellow council members.”
“I can’t believe it,” I said again. “Those asses. So we can assume that Ciaran is around here somewhere.” I thought about it. “I haven’t picked up on anything, except the vision.”
“Nor I. But I think we can guess he’s coming to at least talk to you, like he said.”
“What should we do? What are you going to do?”
“We need to be incredibly vigilant and on guard,” he said. “I’m going to demand that the council take some responsibility for once, take some real action. In the meantime, your house and car are about as protected as I know how.”
I closed my eyes. I had liked Eoife, the council witch I knew the best, but I was outraged that they had bungled this so badly and hadn’t bothered to tell me. Surely they knew that I would be in danger. What had they been thinking?
“The council—” Hunter began, then stopped abruptly, clearly as upset as I was. “It’s like they’re falling apart, with certain factions acting without the knowledge or approval of the others. When it was first formed, they had strong witches at the head. Nowadays the whole thing is being run, and badly, by a witch named Cynthia Pratt. She doesn’t seem to have a handle on anything.”
“Great. So now what?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have to think about it. But maybe we should try scrying again, see if we can pick up on anything about Ciaran at all.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Can I come in?”
My parents would be home from work soon. I had to finish getting dinner together. I glanced at my watch. “I have maybe ten minutes, max,” I said. “But if my mom or dad comes home early, you’ll have to get yourself out of here without them seeing.”
He nodded, and I opened the front door, almost hitting Alisa, who was on her way out. She shot me a startled glance and clutched her messenger bag tighter to her chest. With a jolt I remembered the broken butter dish and sighed. Given the way Alisa was eyeing me, she thought I’d done my Blair Witch act. It was unfortunate that these things often seemed to happen when she was around.
“Hi, Alisa,” Hunter said absently, stepping aside to let her pass. “Hope you’re feeling better.” Alisa had been hospitalized about a month ago for some kind of flu, but she seemed fine now.
“Thanks,” Alisa muttered; then she scuttled past us on the porch and went down the stairs. I watched her for a moment; then Hunter and I entered the warmth of my house.
In my room, where the only male creatures allowed were my father and Dagda, Hunter and I sat on my woven grass rug and lit a candle. We surrounded it with protective stones: agate, jade, malachite, moonstone, olivine, a pearl, black tourmaline, a chunk of rock salt, and a pale brown topaz. We linked hands, touched knees, and looked into the candle. I knew we had only minutes, so I concentrated hard and ruthlessly shut out any extraneous thoughts. Ciaran, I thought. Ciaran. Hunter’s power blended with mine, and we both focused our energy on the candle. The glow of the candle filled my eyes until it seemed that the whole room around me was glowing. Slowly a figure began to emerge, black, from the glow. My heart quickened, and I waited for Ciaran’s face to become recognizable. But when the glow faded a bit, it revealed revealed instead a woman or a girl—
her back was to me. She raised one arm and wrote sigils in the air. I didn’t recognize them. I got the impression she was working magick, powerful magick, but I didn’t know what kind. Who are you? I thought. Why am I seeing you? As if in answer, the girl started turning to face me. But before I saw her features, a great, rolling wave of fire swept toward her. She crumpled underneath it, and the fire swept on. I waited to see the twisted and charred body left behind, but before I could, the image winked out, as if someone had turned off a slide projector.
I sat back, disappointed and confused.
“What I saw didn’t make sense,” Hunter said finally, blowing out the candle.
“It didn’t to me, either,” I said. “I didn’t see Ciaran at all—just a girl and a fire.”
“What does it mean?” he asked in frustration, and then we heard a gentle tap on the door.
“Mom just pulled up,” Mary K. said quietly.
Quickly I put the candle away and Hunter slipped back into his jacket. I opened my bedroom door.
“Thanks,” I told my sister.
She looked at me pointedly. “I got dinner together for you. I cleaned up the broken glass. And now I’ve told you mom’s home so your ass won’t be in a sling.”
“Oh, Mary K.,” I said gratefully. “Thank you. I owe you one.”
“You sure do,” she agreed, and I followed her down the stairs.
“Be careful,” I heard Hunter barely breathe in back of me, and I nodded. Then my mom was in the living room, and I went to the kitchen to finish dinner, and soon after that my dad came home. I never heard Hunter leave, but half an hour later I remembered to glance out the window, and of course his car was gone. It made me feel incredibly alone.
4. Alisa
“The question is, are we going to tolerate witches who are of mixed or unknown clans? Witches whose view of magick is contrary to what we know and hold to be true? Why should we? Why should a clear stream allow mud to cloud its waters? And if we choose to keep our lines pure, how do the other clans fit in? They don’t.”