by Lenore Wolfe
NINE
TARA
Tara stared at the ceiling, hearing another creak of the floorboard above. Smiling, she flipped the covers off, sitting up. She didn’t have to guess who’d snuck up to the attic again in the dusky skies of the night.
Claire.
Tara followed her up there the first night, when they first got back. She’d done so again, each night, since. Even as she lay there, arguing with herself that she wouldn’t get any sleep this way, she had a feeling she’d do so again tonight.
She wondered if they’d get to use that wonderful old attic, now that they were all back. Now that they were the witches meant to protect this particular gateway. Would they be the ones stirring the herbs in one of several of the huge old cauldrons, Murcia stocked up there?
Tara flopped back against the pillows, still staring at the ceiling. She hoped so—and not for the first time. Most witches dreamed of such an attic. She’d wanted to take it home with her from the first moment she’d laid eyes on it as a child. She’d often spoken of it to her Nanna—telling her someday she wanted a house with a witch’s magickal room of her own, like that.
Murcia had been one of the coven leaders in this tiny little town, although none of them knew that as children. Tara hadn’t found a chance to tell Claire that her Nanna disagreed with the parent’s decision to try and protect their children by keeping them in the dark—believing they could keep Dante from finding them. Believing that, in their fear, their only choice lay in keeping their children blind to the real danger they were in—to protect them from the warlock they couldn’t possibly defeat.
Tara turned on her side, trying to get comfortable, trying in vain to quiet her mind.
Unfortunately, many years passed before Claire and Tara learned the truth of their birthright as a witch. Tara learned the truth from Claire, who’d learned it from her Grandma Murcia. Those left of their group were in their mid-teens by then. They’d long since lost Morgan. And since Morgan had been missing for all that time, she hadn’t learned the truth—until now.
On top of that, Tara didn’t find out about her Nanna, until the other day. She supposed she’d have to talk to Claire about that—perhaps tonight—if she couldn’t manage to get herself to go to sleep.
She turned to stare at the ceiling again, as Claire moved across the floor above. One board had never been fixed. The girls use to giggle about that—once they’d been allowed up there. Tara deliberately took this bedroom after that—as she did now—so she’d know whenever someone went up there. Tara didn’t know how she knew, but she knew the knowledge they sought lay somewhere in that amazing old attic.
Wondering about that, she lay there puzzling out the coven’s thinking, though their families decided to keep the knowledge that they’d been born witches from them. Murcia said they’d done so to protect them.
Tara still didn’t get that logic. To her, it didn’t make much sense.
How could a bunch of adults—most of whom she considered grounded—to have good heads on their shoulders—have lost their common sense when it came to training their children about magick. Her thoughts returned to Murcia, who maintained they only tried to protect them, believing Dante would take the sisters from them….
She knew Claire dismissed the idea, but the coven figured, if their children didn’t know what they were—didn’t know about the world of magick—somehow, they’d be safe from Dante. Somehow, they’d fly under his radar. They’d apparently decided that if they couldn’t prevent him from coming after their children, perhaps he wouldn’t pay them much mind since he’d always been drawn too powerful magick.
Because of that, and even though he knew they were there, they’d rolled the dice that he wouldn’t bother with their children—if they took no part in the magickal world.
At least, that’s the way Tara understood it.
Tara huffed, rolling over, yet again, staring at the moon’s reflection in her mirror.
Apparently, they had decided that if their children didn’t grow up fighting him, he wouldn’t pay attention to them. But if they did go up against him—he’d never quit coming after them until he’d killed each and every last one of them….
Tara’s gaze narrowed on the ceiling above. Something about the coven’s logic bothered her. Were they really that stupid? Or—were she and her sister-friends failed to spot something?
But what could they possibly be missing?
She knew that was why Claire dismissed her ideas on the subject.
One thing was for sure—Dante wouldn’t stop—magick or no magick. Not until they were all dead.
As it stood, he didn’t succeed in getting his hands on Morgan as a child, but only through a fluke. She’d disappeared. At first, the coven had been frantic—thinking he’d taken her, but then someone assured them he still lurked in the shadows—looking for her.
Tara still didn’t know who’d have known that. And the last time she and Claire talked to Murcia—Claire’s grandmother still felt sure he’d stop at nothing until he got ahold of either, or both, of the sisters.
Tara frowned, her thoughts snagging, once more, on that thought. Something about that just didn’t make sense.
At first, in her teen years, she didn’t understand why. Sure, she and the sisters were already doing some amazing things with magick—even while untrained—yet when the coven figured out what the kids were up to—Claire and Tara quickly deduced why the warlock wanted to get his hands on them.
He wanted them—before they could wield their full power…. When they were older, they would be much more difficult to stop.
So why would the coven not train them?
She turned over, for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable. She flopped onto her back in frustration. “Oh, to heck with it,” she said out loud to no one in particular. Getting up, she pulled her robe over her pajama shorts and top, and put on some slippers, deciding that she might as well go and help Claire.
She snuck upstairs to the attic, but Claire had already left, so she quietly went back down the stairs and made her way to Claire’s bedroom, lightly tapping on the door, spotting Claire’s chestnut curls as her head flew up, as Tara cracked it open. Claire smiled and waved her in.
“Find anything?”
Claire shook her head. “Did you know they kept two separate, Book of Shadows?” she said, eyeing Tara in frustration. “Would someone please explain to me why they went to such trouble to keep us in the dark?” She set the one she was holding next to Tara, as she sat down on the other end of the bed. “Even when I thought Grams was real with me—when she was training me to call the Daughters of the Circle—she still wasn’t being straight with me.”
Tara stared at her. “Why tell you that you were supposed to call the Daughters—and not tell you how to beat your greatest enemy? Do you think she was trying to keep you busy doing something—keep you out of harm’s way, so to speak?”
Claire thrust her hand through her hair, blowing a harsh breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. The more I learn—the more I realize we still don’t know a damn thing.”
“What do you have to do to call these Daughters?” Tara asked.
Claire grinned. “You are one of these Daughters,” she said. “So am I, Morgan, Sophia….”
Tara’s brows shot up. “When did you plan to tell us about this?”
Claire shrugged. “There hasn’t been a lot of time, between dealing with this old manor, and trying to figure out who’s trying to stop us.”
Tara eyed her. “Well—it seems I have something of my own to tell you too.”
Claire’s brows shot up at this.
Tara frowned. “My Grams is part of that coven.”
Claire’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wow—they kept that a secret didn’t they.”
“And,” she said, smiling, “you haven’t heard the best part.” She paused, causing Claire to wave her hands at her, like bring it on, excited now.
“She disagreed with them—and is willi
ng to teach us all she knows.”
Claire’s face split into a grin. “And you waited a whole week to tell me that.”
Tara laughed. “It’s been a very busy week,” she mimicked.
Claire swatted at her. “Do you think she’d start coming over, right away?”
Tara nodded, then frowned at her. “What exactly are we supposed to do, about calling these Daughters?”
Claire stared down at her hands, then eyed her, her gaze serious now. “We have to figure out who the rest of these Daughters are, first. Perhaps your Grams can help us there, too.”
Tara nodded. She’d figured that much out already. “And then, what?”
Claire looked down at the Book of Shadows. “Then, we call the Goddesses home, in a more physical way than we have been for the last few hundred years. This will be more like the Isle of Avalon.”
Tara’s brow shot up, and she smiled. “Will we pull this place back into the mist too?”
Claire giggled at her, and she clucked her tongue at her. “You’ll see. When it happens, you’ll see.” Then, she shrugged. “But, yes. We’ll have to pull it back through the veil,” she said. “We couldn’t keep it in the open, for the humans to see, could we?”
Tara recognized the truth in that. It didn’t matter how far they'd come. It wasn’t near far enough for something like this. People still showed a tremendous fear of things they didn’t understand.
“Why do you suppose I didn’t realize my own Grams was a witch?” Tara said, looking down at the pattern on the quilt covering the bed. “I feel pretty stupid.”
Claire laughed. “We use to try to figure out who in town belonged to the coven,” she said, laughing. “Remember?” She frowned, now. “It doesn’t surprise me that we didn’t know.”
Tara nodded, picking at a loose thread. “But—we should have. She’s my blood. I got my power from somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Claire said, softly. “But—no offense—but your Grams?” She chuckled again.
Tara grinned now, too. “Yeah,” she said, laughing. “I see your point. She’s always acted so—well—straight laced.”
Claire nodded. “I never suspected she’d do something, like join a coven.”
Tara shook her head. She still had a hard time believing it.
After a moment, Tara gazed up at Claire. “You’re going to have to tell Morgan about the attic, Claire,” Tara said. “You can’t hide it from her, anymore.” She gave Claire a hard look, saw tears come to Claire’s eyes. “Don’t you think everyone’s been kept in the dark long enough? Didn’t you hate that they kept the truth from us—even if they did it to protect us?”
Claire stared at her for a moment, as she seemed to think on this. Finally, she nodded.
Tara smiled. “Good,” she said. “Besides, we’re going to need to share all the information we remember—no matter how insignificant—if we’re going to figure this out.”
Claire beamed at her. “When did you go, and get so wise?” She teased.
Tara giggled. “When you went, and got so powerful,” she countered.
Then, Claire glanced up and stared at something behind her. She sensed someone, or something, enter the room—and that someone now stood directly behind her. Tara sucked in her breath, caught, like swimming in mud as she turned, as if in slow motion, to see what caused Claire to go white as chalk.
And then, she saw him.
The two women sat there, staring at the same Gargoyle creature who’d caused them to get split up as kids. He watched Claire—gazed straight into her eyes—his own midnight blue, deep with some unnamed emotion.
He turned, and, in a flash, he’d gone.
She stared at the space where he’d just been. They’d been afraid of him. What happened, that day, when they’d been kids, altered the course of their lives. They’d been terrified. She’d been terrified. Now—well—now she didn’t know what to think. Her brows came down in a frown of complete confusion.
Tara nearly smiled. She imagined her friend couldn’t figure out how she could be attracted to the same winged male, who’d put her in a coma….
She stared at Claire—saw Claire swallow and shake her head, then shrug. She let out a breath she’d been holding, glancing out the window. Claire liked the Gargoyle.
Oh, well, she sighed, happy for her.
Claire wanted him to come back, Tara could see it, plainly in her sister-friend's green eyes.
Claire wanted him to explain himself. She didn’t blame her. She wanted the same thing.
How could she want such a thing, from him? He’d scared them, badly, as young, barely teenage. And Morgan lost her memory because of it—and somehow Claire ended up in that coma.
Tara winced, somehow things always seemed to get all fuzzy, whenever she thought about—what happened that afternoon.
Perhaps—the time had come to ask the Gargoyle, himself….
She turned her head, staring at Claire, as she gazed out the window, into the dark. Tara folded her arms around her waist. They were back in Ravenwood—and so, it would seem, was the beast. They’d come full circle—she realized—and nothing in their lives would be the same.
