by Cate Tiernan
He took a sip of tea. The pale light from the window outlined the planes of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. I waited, and he came close to me, so that his shirt was almost brushing mine and I could see the fine texture of his skin.
Cal turned toward the window again and pushed his fingers through his hair, holding it back from his left temple. I caught a glimpse of a birthmark there, beneath the hair. I reached up and traced its outline with my fingers. It was a dark red athame, just like the one I had under my arm. The mark of the Woodbane clan.
"Hunter was right," Cal went on, his voice low. "I am Woodbane. And I've always known it."
I needed to sit down. I had been so upset when I first found out about my heritage, and Cal had said it wasn't so terrible. Now I saw why. I put down my tea and walked across the room to the futon couch. I sank onto it and he came to kneel at my side.
"My father was Woodbane, and so is my mother," he said, looking more uncomfortable than I'd ever seen him. "They're not the Belwicket kind of Woodbanes, where everyone renounces evil and swears to do good." He shrugged, not looking at me. "There's another kind of Woodbane, who practices magick traditionally, I mean traditionally for their clan. For Woodbanes that means not being so picky about how you get your knowledge and why you use your power. Traditional Woodbanes don't subscribe to the council's edict that witches never interfere with humans. They figure, humans interfere with us, we all live in the same world, not two separate universes, so they're going to use their powers to take care of problems they might have with humans, or to protect themselves, or to get what they need…."
I was unable to take my eyes off his face.
"After my dad married my mother, I think they started to go different ways, magickally," Cal continued. "Mom has always been very powerful and ambitious, and I think my father disagreed with some of the things she was doing."
"Like what?" I asked, a little shocked.
He waved an impatient hand. "You know, taking too many risks. Anyway, then my dad met Fiona, his second wife. Fiona was a Wyndenkell. I don't know if he wanted a Wyndenkell alliance or he just loved her more. But either way, he left my mother."
I was finally getting some answers. "But if Hunter was right and your father was also his father, then wasn't he half Woodbane himself?" This sounded like some awful soap opera. The Young and the Wiccan.
"That's the thing," said Cal. "Of course he was. So it made no sense for him to persecute Woodbanes. But he seemed to have a thing about them, like Mom said. An obsession. I wondered if he blamed my father—our father—for what happened to his parents and their coven, for some reason, and so decided to get all Woodbanes. Who knows? He was unhinged."
"So you're Woodbane," I said, still trying to take all in.
"Yes," he admitted.
"Why didn't you tell me before? I was hysterical about being Woodbane."
"I know," he said, sighing. "I should have. But Belwicket was a different kind of Woodbane, a completely good Woodbane, above reproach. I wasn't sure you would understand my family's heritage. I mean, it isn't like they're all evil. They don't worship demons or anything like that. It's just—they do what they want to do. They don't always follow rules."
"Why are you telling me now?"
At last he looked at me, and I felt the pull of his gaze. "Because I love you. I trust you. I don't want any secrets to come between us. And—"
The door to his room suddenly flew open. I jumped about a foot in the air. Selene stood there, dressed beautifully in a dark gold sweater and tweed pants.
Cal stood with swift grace. "What the hell are you doing." I had never heard anyone speak to their mother this way, and I flinched.
"What are you doing?" she countered. "I felt—what are you talking about?"
"None of your business," he said, and Selene's eyes flashed with surprise.
"We discussed this," she said in a low voice.
"Mom, you need to leave," Cal said flatly. I was embarrassed and confused and also worried: no way did I want to get in between these two if they were fighting.
"How—how did you know he was telling me anything?" I ventured.
"I felt it," Selene said. "I felt him say Woodbane."
This was really interesting. Creepy, but interesting.
"Yes, you're Woodbane," I said, standing up. "I'm Woodbane, too. Is there a reason I shouldn't know your clan?"
"Mom, I trust Morgan, and you need to trust me," Cal said thinly. "Now, will you get back to your work and leave us alone, or do I have to spell the door?"
My lips curved into an involuntary smile, and a second later the tension on Selene's face broke. She breathed out. "Very nice. Threaten your mother," she said tartly.
"Hey, I'll make it so you'll never find your way up here again," Cal said, his hands on his hips. He was smiling now, but I felt he wasn't entirely joking. I thought of Selene walking in on us when we were rolling around on Cal's bed and secretly decided maybe spelling the door wouldn't be such a bad idea.
"Forgive me," Selene said at last. "I'm sorry. It's just—Woodbanes have a terrible reputation. We're used to guarding our privacy fiercely. For a moment I forgot who Cal was talking to—and how extraordinary and trustworthy you are. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I said, and Selene turned around and left. Quickly Cal stepped to the door and snapped the lock behind her, then traced several sigils and runes around the frame of the door with his fingers, muttering something.
"Okay," he said. "That will keep her out." He sounded smug, and I smiled.
"Are you sure?"
The answering look he gave me took my breath away. When he held out his hand, I went to him immediately, and next we tumbled onto his wide bed, the white comforter billowing cozily beneath us. For a long time we kissed and held each other, and I knew that I felt even closer to him than before. Each time we were alone together, we went a little further, and today I needed to feel close to him, needed to be comforted by his touch. Restlessly I pushed my hands under his shirt, against his smooth skin.
I never wore a bra, having a distinct lack of need, and when his hands slipped under my shirt and unerringly found their way to my breasts, I almost cried out. One part of my mind hoped the spell on his door was really foolproof, the other part of my mind turned to tapioca.
I pulled him tightly to me, feeling his desire, hearing his breathing quicken in my ear, amazed at how much I loved him.
This time it was Cal who gradually slowed, who eased the fierceness of his kisses, who calmed his breathing and so made me calm mine. Apparently today would not be the day, either. I was both relieved and disappointed.
After our breathing had more or less returned to normal, he stroked my hair away from my face and said, "I have something to show you."
"Huh?" I said. But he was rolling off the bed, straightening his clothing.
Then he held out his hand to me. "Come," he said, and I followed him without question.
CHAPTER 9
Secrets
It's odd to be the son of a famous witch. Everyone watches you, from the time you can walk and talk— watches you for signs of genius or of mediocrity. You're never offstage.
Mom raised me as she saw fit. She has plans for me, my future. I've never really discussed them with her, only listened to her tell me about them. Until recently, it never crossed my mind to disagree. It's flattering to have someone prepare you for greatness, sure of your ability to pull it off.
Yet since my love came into my life, I fell differently. She questions things, she stands up for herself. She's so naive but so strong, too. She makes me want things I've never wanted before.
I remember back in California—I was sixteen. Mom had started a coven. It was the usual smoke and mirrors—Mom using her circle's powers as sort of an energy boost so she wouldn't have to deplete her own—but then to our surprise she unearthed a very strong witch, a woman about twenty-five or so, who had no idea of her bloodlines. During circles she blew us away. So mom asked me t
o get close to her. I did—it was surprisingly easy.
Then mom extinguished her during the Rite of Dubh Siol. It upset me, even though I'd known that it might happen.
It won't come to that this time. I'll make sure.
— Sgath
As Cal led me down his outside steps to the back patio, the last flakes of falling snow brushed my face and landed on my hair. I held tightly to the iron rail; the metal stairs were slick with snow and ice.
Cal offered me his hand at the bottom of the stair. I crunched onto the snow, and he began to lead me across the stone patio. We were both cold; our coats had been in the downstairs foyer, and we hadn't gotten them.
I realized we were heading toward the pool. "Oh, God, you can't be thinking about going skinny dipping!" I said, only half joking.
Cal laughed, throwing back his head as he led me past the big pool. "No. It's covered for the winter, underneath that snow. Of course, if you're willing…"
"I'm not," I said quickly. I had been the lone holdout from a group swim at our coven's second meeting.
He laughed again, and then we were at the little building that served as the pool house. Built to look like a miniature version of the big house, its stone waits were covered with clinging ivy, brown in winter.
Cal opened a door, and we stepped into one of the small dressing rooms. It was decorated luxuriously, with gold hooks, spare terry-cloth robes, and full-length mirrors.
"What are we doing here?" I looked at my pale self in the mirror and made a face.
"Patience," Cal teased, and opened another door that led to a bathroom, complete with shower stall and a rack of fluffy white towels. Now I was really confused.
From his pocket Cal took a key ring, selected a key, and opened a small, locked closet The door swung open to reveal shallow shelves with toiletries and cleaning supplies.
Cal stood back and gently swept his hands around the door frame, and I saw the faint glimmer of sigiis tracing its perimeter. He muttered some words that I couldn't understand, and then the shelves swung backward to reveal an opening about five feet high and maybe two feet wide. There was another room behind it.
I raised my eyebrows at Cal. "You guys have a thing for hidden rooms," I said, thinking of his mother's concealed library in the main house.
Cal grinned. "Of course. We're witches," he said, and ducked through the door. I followed, stepping through, then straightening cautiously on the other side.
Cal stood there, expectant. "Help me light candles," he said, "so you can see better."
I glanced around, my magesight immediately adjusting to the darkness, and found myself in a very small room, perhaps seven feet by seven feet There was one tiny, leaded-glass window set high up on the wall, beneath the unexpectedly high ceiling.
Cal started lighting candles. I was about to say it wasn't necessary, I could see fine, but then I realized he wanted to create an effect. I looked around, and my gaze landed on the burnt wick of a thick cream-colored pillar candle. I need fire, I thought, then blinked as the wick burst into flame.
It mesmerized me, and I leaned, timelost, into the wavering, triangular bloom of flame swaying seductively about the wick. I saw the wick shrivel and curl as the intense heat made the fibers contract and blacken, heard the roar of the victorious fire as it consumed the wick and surged upward in ecstasy. I felt the softening of the wax below as it sighed and acquiesced, melting and flowing into liquid.
My eyes shining, I glanced up to see Cal staring at me almost in alarm. I swallowed, wondering if I had made one of those Wiccan faux pas I was so good at.
"The fire," I murmured lamely in explanation. "It's pretty."
"Light another one," he said, and I turned to the next candle and thought about fire, and an unseen spark of life jumped from me to the wick, where it burst into a bloom of light. He didn't have to encourage me to do more. One by one, I lit the candles that lined the walls, covered the tiny bookcase, dripped out of wine bottles, and guttered on top of plates thick with old wax.
The room was now glowing, the hundreds of small flames lighting our skin, our hair, our eyes. In the middle of the floor was a single futon covered with a thin, soft, oriental rug. I sat on it, clasped my arms around my knees, and looked around me. Cal sat next to me.
"So this is your secret clubhouse?" I asked, and he chuckled and put his arm around me.
"Something like that," he agreed. "This is my sanctuary." Now that I wasn't lighting candles, I had the time to be awestruck by my surroundings. Every square inch of watt and ceiling was painted with magickal symbols, only some of which I recognized. My brows came together as I tried to make out runes and marks of power.
My mathematician's brain started ticking: Cal and Selene had moved here right before school started—the beginning of September. It was almost the end of November now: that left not quite three months. I turned to look at him.
"How did you do all this in three months?"
He gave a short laugh. "Three months? I did this in three weeks, before school started. Lots of late nights."
"What do you do in here?" He smiled down at me.
"Make magick," he said.
"What about your room?"
"The main house is full of my mother's vibrations, not to mention those of her coven members. My room is fine for most things; it's no problem for us to have circles there. But for my stuff alone, sensitive spells, spells needing a lot of energy, I come here." He looked around, and I wondered if he was remembering all the warm late-summer nights he had been in here, painting, making magick, making the walls vibrate with his energy. Bowls of charred incense littered the floor and the bookshelves, and the books of magick lined up behind them were dark and faded, looking immeasurably old. In one corner was an altar, made of a polished chunk of marble as big as a suitcase. It was draped with a purple velvet cloth and held candles, bowls of incense, Cal's athame, a vase of spidery hothouse orchids, and a Celtic cross.
"This is what I wanted to show you," he said quietly, his arm warm across my back. "I've never shown this to anyone, although my mother knows it's here. I would never let any of the other Cirrus members see this room. It's too private."
My eyes swept across the dense writing, picking out a f rune here and there. I had no idea how long we had been I sitting there, but I became aware that I was sweating. The I room was so small that just the heat of the candles was starting to make it too warm. It occurred to me that the candles were burning oxygen, and Practical Morgan looked for a vent. I couldn't see one, but that didn't mean anything. The room was so chaotic that it was hard to focus on any one thing.
I realized in surprise that I wouldn't be comfortable making magick in this room. To me it was starting to seem claustrophobic, jangling, as if all my nerves were being subtly irritated. I noticed that my breath was coming faster.
"You're my soul mate," Cal whispered. "Only you could handle being here. Someday we'll make magick here, together. We'll surprise everybody."
I didn't know what to think of that. I was starting to feel distinctly ill at ease.
"I think I'd better get home," I said, gathering my feet beneath me. "I don't want to be late."
I knew it sounded lame, and I could sense Cal's slight withdrawal. I felt guilty for not sharing his enthusiasm. But I really needed to get out of there.
"Of course," Cal said, standing and helping me to my feet. One by one he blew out the candles, and I could hear the minuscule droplets of searing wax splatting against the walls. One candle at a time, the room grew darker, and although I could see perfectly, when the room was dark, it felt unbearable, its weight pressing in on me.
Abruptly, not waiting for Cal, I stepped back through the small door, ducking so I wouldn't whack my head. I didn't stop all I was outside. In the blessedly frigid air. I breathed in and out several times, feeling my head dear, seeing my breath puff out like smoke.
Cal followed me a moment later, pulling the pool-house door closed behind him.
"Thank you for showing it to me," I said, sounding stiff and polite.
He led me back to the house. My nerves felt raw as I collected my coat from the front foyer. Outside again, Cal walked me to my car.
"Thanks for coming over," he said, leaning in through the car window.
I was chilled in the frosted air, and my breath puffed out as I remembered the things we had done In his bedroom and the sharp contrast with how I had felt in the pool house.
"I'll talk to you later," I said, tilting my head up to kiss him. Then I was pulling out, my one headlight sweeping across a world seemingly made of ice.
CHAPTER 10
Undercurrents
October 2000
I came home from Ireland this week for Alwyn's initiation. It's hard to believe she's fourteen: she seems both younger, with her knobby knees and tall, coltish prettiness, and somehow also older—the wisdom in her eyes, life's pain etched on her face.
I brought her a russet silk robe from Connemara. She plans to embroider stars and moons around it's neck and hem. Uncle Beck has carved her a beautiful wand and pounded in bits of malachite and bloodstone along the handle. I think she'll be pleased when she sees it.
I know my parents would want to be here if they could, as they would have wanted to see my initiation and Linden's. I'm not sure if they're still alive. I can't sense them.
Last year I met Dad's first wife and his other son at one of the big coven meetings in Scotland. They seemed very Woodbane: cold and hateful toward me. I had wondered if perhaps Dad still kept in tough with Selene—she's very beautiful, very magnetic. But his name seemed to set off a storm within them, which is not unreasonable, after all.
I must go—Alwyn needs help in figuring the positions of the stars on Saturday night.
— Giomanach
That night, after the house was quiet, I lay in bed, thinking. I had been disturbed by Cal's secret room. It had been so intense, so strange. I didn't really like to think about what Cal had done to make the room have those kinds of vibrations, vibrations I could only begin to identify.