The Calling s-7

by Cate Tiernan

  “We’ve got to find a way to protect him,” I said, finishing his sentence.

  “I’ve got to find a way to protect him,” Hunter amended. “You’ve got to relax and enjoy the city. Shop, see museums, eat bagels, visit the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re going to need help,” I argued. “I mean, you’ve got nothing to go on. Where do you even begin to find this stuff out? Can we scry or something?”

  “Don’t you think the council has already tried all the methods of getting information by magick?” Hunter asked gently. “We’re at a dead end. It’s a matter of legwork now. And you can’t help me on this.” He laid his fingers gently on my lips as I started to protest. “You know it as well as I do, Morgan. It’s simply too dangerous for you.” He looked troubled. “Which reminds me of the other thing the council couldn’t figure out.”

  “What’s that?” I whacked the horn impatiently. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, even though we were still miles from the exit for the bridge.

  “We don’t know why you’re the one who was given this dream.”

  A cold finger of fear traced its way down my back. I swallowed and was silent.

  “Gurevitch, get your elbow out of my ribs,” Raven murmured. There was a general stirring in the back, then Robbie leaned over the blue vinyl bench seat. “Morning,” he said to us. “Where are we?”

  “About five miles north of the city,” Hunter answered.

  “I’m starving,” Robbie said. “How about we stop for breakfast?”

  “I brought muffins,” Bree announced. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her holding up a large white paper bag, managing to look both sleepy and cover-girl beautiful. Bree was tall and slim, with dark eyes and sleek, mink-brown hair. She and Robbie, our good friend since elementary school, had recently started going out—sort of. Robbie was in love with Bree, but when he’d told her that, she’d gotten “all squirrelly,” as Robbie put it. Yet she continued to see him. What, exactly, she felt for him was a puzzle to me. Not that I was any expert on coupledom. Hunter was only the second guy I’d gone out with.

  “Got any lemon poppy seed?” Raven asked as she rooted through the muffin bag. “Want one, Sky?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Sky said, yawning.

  Sky and Raven were a study in contrasts. Sky was slim, pale, blond, with a penchant for androgynous clothing and a delicate beauty that belied her considerable power. Raven, Widow’s Vale’s resident goth girl, favored a bad-girl wardrobe that left very little to the imagination. Her current outfit featured a tight black vinyl bustier that revealed the circle of flames tattooed around her belly button. A purple stud in her nose flashed as she turned her head. The interesting thing was that Raven, who had set a record for seducing guys, was now seeing Sky. And Sky was in love with Raven. It was definitely an attraction of opposites.

  Hunter took a cranberry muffin from Bree and fed me a chunk of it as I navigated the torturous bridge traffic. “Thanks,” I mumbled through a sticky mouthful, and he reached out to wipe a crumb from the corner of my mouth. Our eyes met and held, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as I saw the desire in his gaze.

  “Um, Morgan?” Robbie said from the backseat. “The road is that way.” He pointed through the windshield.

  Still flushed, I wrenched my attention back to the road and tried to ignore what being so close to Hunter was doing to all my nerve endings. But I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to stay with him in Bree’s father’s apartment.

  Mr. Warren was a successful lawyer with clients in the city and upstate New York. I knew his city apartment was in the East Twenties. Even if we weren’t going to have the place to ourselves, being in a New York City apartment with Hunter seemed wildly romantic. I pictured us in the master bedroom, gazing out at a night view of the Manhattan skyline.

  And then what? I asked myself with a twinge of alarm. Hunter, sensing it, took his hand off my thigh. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Um—I’m not really ready to talk about it,” I said.

  “Fair enough.” I could feel Hunter deliberately turning his senses away from me, leaving me to examine my own thoughts in peace.

  Cal had been my first boyfriend. He’d been so beautiful, so charismatic and seductive. Not only that, he’d introduced me to magick and all its beauty. He’d told me we weremùirn beatha dàns, soul mates. And I’d wanted to believe him. Every fiber of my being had wanted to be with him, yet I hadn’t felt ready for the final step of going to bed with him. Now I wondered if part of me had known all along that Cal was lying to me, manipulating me. It made my grief for him into a more complicated thing, layered with resentment and anger.

  But Hunter was different. I loved him, trusted him, and was completely, soul-shakingly attracted to him. So why did it scare me to think about actually sleeping with him? I glanced in the rearview mirror, studying my friends. Robbie was a virgin like me, but I was pretty sure that wouldn’t last long, now that he and Bree were together. He wanted her desperately. I didn’t know about Sky, but I knew that Bree had lost her virginity in the tenth grade, and Raven—well, I couldn’t imagine Raven ever being a virgin.

  What was wrong with me, that I was seventeen and still so inexperienced?

  “You’ll want to take the next exit,” Hunter murmured, and I was grateful for the gentle prompt. I merged into the traffic on the Harlem River Drive, and we swept across the top of Manhattan to the FDR Drive and the East River.

  Quite suddenly the open view of the winter sky disappeared. The air became tinged with gray, and billboards and tall brick projects rose to my right. The traffic, already slow, became stop and go; impatient drivers leaned on horns. A van in front of me spewed a cloud of black exhaust. I caught a glimpse of lead-gray river water to my left, with industrial buildings on the far side. A taxi driver yelled unintelligibly at me as he passed on the right.

  I felt a surge of raw, boisterous energy. We were in the city.

  2. Searching

  March 3, 1977

  My wedding garments are laid out. The white robe embroidered in gold with the runes to summon power. The belt woven of gold and crimson threads. The groom’s wristbands, beaten gold set with rubies, that I inherit from Grania’s father. Everything is spelled with charms for strength and fertility, with protections against whatever might harm us, with blessings for wealth and long life.

  I wonder about love, though. Grania teases me, saying that nothing truly touches my heart, and maybe she’s right. I know I don’t love her, though I’m fond of her.

  Yet my mind lingers on last summer’s fling with that American Woodbane, Selene. Now, I know that wasn’t love, but Goddess, it was exciting, the most intense experience I’ve ever had. And that includes all the times I’ve been with Grania. Still, Grania is a pretty thing and very pliant. And she’s strong in her magick. Our children will be powerful, and that’s the most important thing. Power. Woodbane power.

  So why do I hesitate as I prepare for our wedding? And why do I keep dreaming of that damned white dress?

  — Neimhidh

  Bree’s father’s apartment was on Park Avenue and Twenty-second Street. Bree gave directions, and I maneuvered Das Boot off the FDR, across Twenty-third Street, and finally onto Park and into the garage beneath the building.

  The garage attendant gave me a strange look as we pulled in. With its two front quarter panels covered with gray body filler, its slate blue hood and shiny new metal bumper, Das Boot was not looking its most sophisticated.

  Bree cranked down her window and spoke to the guard. “We’re guests of Mr. Warren in apartment thirty-sixty,” she said. “He’s arranged for a guest pass.”

  The guard checked a computer screen and let us in. The garage was filled with BMWs, Jags, Mercedes, and top-of-the-line SUVs.

  I patted Das Boot on its piebald fender. “You’re good for this place,” I told it. “They need to se
e how the other half drives.”

  “It’s the perfect city car,” Robbie assured me. “No one would ever try to steal it.”

  Loaded down with bags, we walked to the elevator. Bree hit the button for the thirtieth floor, and I felt Hunter clasp my hand. This was so glamorous, like something in a movie.

  Raven smiled at Sky. “This is very cool. I love the city.”

  Sky smiled back at her. “Think I could persuade you to visit the Cloisters?”

  “Hell, yes,” Raven said. “It’s a medieval museum, right? I love that stuff.”

  The elevator opened, and we walked down a narrow hallway to the apartment at the very end. Mr. Warren opened the door before we knocked. Like Bree, he was tall, slender, and very good-looking. He was dressed in an elegantly tailored suit and silk tie.

  “Come on in,” he said. He pointed to a little video monitor by the door that revealed the thirtieth-floor hallway. “I saw you arrive.” He pecked Bree on the cheek, then gave me a smile. “Hello, Morgan. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Hi, Mr. Warren,” I mumbled. He had always made me a little nervous.

  He hit a button, and the scene on the monitor switched to the garage. Another button showed us the building’s lobby and doorman. “I’ve told the security people that you’ll be here through Monday,” he said. “Did you have a good trip?”

  Bree stretched. “Perfect. Morgan drove. I slept most of the way. Oh, Dad, you’ve met Robbie, Raven, and Sky. And this is Hunter Niall, Sky’s cousin. I’ve mentioned him to you.”

  I wondered what, exactly, Bree had told her father. Did he know that Hunter and Sky were witches, that his own daughter practiced Wicca? Probably not, I decided. Mr. Warren was a pretty hands-off parent. Half the time he was in New York City instead of Widow’s Vale, and even when he was home, Bree didn’t have a curfew, didn’t have to be home for dinner by a certain time, didn’t have to call to say where she was. My parents had been a little leery of letting me come on this trip because of that.

  Mr. Warren glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run, kids. Meeting. Bree, I’ve left a couple of extra keys in the kitchen. Show everyone around and help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. You can sleep anywhere except my room. I’ve got a dinner out on Long Island tonight, so I won’t be back until quite late.” He brushed her cheek with a kiss and reached into the hall closet for his coat. “Enjoy the city!”

  When he was gone, Bree smiled and said, “Come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

  The grand tour took all of two minutes. Mr. Warren’s apartment consisted of a decent-size living room whose windows looked out over Park Avenue, a master bedroom, a small study, an even smaller guest room, a bathroom, and a tiny efficiency kitchen.

  Everybody oohed and aahed, but I couldn’t help feeling disappointed, and I suspected the others did, too. Bree had told us the apartment had only two bedrooms, but somehow I’d expected something bigger, grander. Privacy was going to be tough.

  “Nice,” Robbie said at last. “Great location.”

  “One bathroom?” Raven sounded incredulous. “For seven of us?”

  Bree shrugged. “It’s Manhattan. Space is at a premium. Actually, this place is huge by Manhattan standards.”

  “I like the decor,” Sky said. “It’s simple.”

  That was an understatement, I thought. Like the Warrens’ Widow’s Vale house, the apartment was austere. The walls were white, the upholstery, muted neutrals. The furniture was light and spare, with an L-shaped couch, a coffee table, and a flat-screen TV the only furniture in the living room. One painting hung on the north wall, an abstract block of brown fading into tan against a white canvas. There were no knickknacks, no photographs or vases. The room didn’t feel very lived in.

  We dropped our bags in a pile next to the couch. Hunter stood by the windows. In faded jeans that hung loose on his hips and an oversize wheat-colored sweater, he looked vaguely bohemian and wholly beautiful. The light made his eyes turn a deep jade. In the time that I’d known him, I’d spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about Hunter’s eyes. Sometimes they were the color of spring grass, sometimes the color of the sea.

  “What’s the plan, then?” Sky asked Hunter.

  “It’s just after ten,” Hunter said. He hadn’t bothered to check a clock. His witch senses included an uncanny sense of time. “I need to call on some people,” he went on. Briefly he explained his mission to the others.

  “Oh, right,” Raven said sarcastically. “No problem.”

  “Hey, I lost a needle in a haystack last week,” Bree chimed in. “Think you could find that for me? You know, when you’ve got a second.”

  “Do you want help?” Sky asked Hunter quietly, and I had to suppress an irrational surge of jealousy. She’s his cousin, I reminded myself. They look out for each other.

  Hunter glanced at me with a very slight smile, and I knew he’d noticed my reaction. “No,” he told Sky. “Not for this part of it, anyway. It will be easier for me to get people to talk if I’m on my own. We’ll meet back here before dinner. Say, six o’clock?”

  “Works for me,” said Raven. “There are some stores near St. Mark’s Place I want to check out. Anyone want to come?”

  Sky, Bree, and Robbie signed on for the St. Mark’s excursion. I decided to stay at the apartment, my excuse being that I wanted to rest for a bit after the drive. Actually, I had a secret mission of my own in the city. I needed to come up with a plan of action.

  When the others had left, I went to the wide double window that looked out over Park Avenue. I could feel the city humming beneath me, people in cars and buses and taxicabs; pedestrians and bicycle messengers. I felt a twinge of regret that I wasn’t down there on the streets with the others. But I had work to do.

  I opened my backpack and took out a book bound in dark red cloth and a dagger with an intricately carved ivory handle. They were part of my inheritance, the Book of Shadows and the athame, or ceremonial dagger, that had belonged to my birth mother, Maeve Riordan. The rest of her witch’s tools were back in Widow’s Vale, hidden in my house.

  I settled myself on Mr. Warren’s living room floor and opened the Book of Shadows to an entry dated April 1982, a few months after Maeve and Angus Bramson, my birth father, arrived in America. They’d fled Ireland when their coven, Belwicket, was destroyed by something called the dark wave, a deadly concentration of dark energies. Maeve and Angus were the only survivors.

  With nothing left in Ireland and a clear sense that they were being hunted, Maeve and Angus came to New York City. Eventually they left the city and settled upstate, an hour or two north of Widow’s Vale, in a tiny town called Meshomah Falls.

  The entry on the page I’d turned to talked about how unhappy Maeve was in her Hell’s Kitchen flat. She felt Manhattan was a place cut off from the pulse of the earth. It made her grief for all she’d lost that much sharper.

  I held the athame to the page covered with Maeve’s handwriting. Slowly I passed the age-worn silver blade over the blue ink, and as I did, pinpricks of light began to form a different set of words entirely. It was one of Maeve’s secret entries.

  I have been staring at this gold watch for hours, as though it were a gift from the Goddess herself. I never should have brought it with me from Ireland. Oh, it’s a beautiful object, passed down through the ages from one lover to another. Were I to cast my senses, I know I could feel generations of love and desire radiating from it. But it was given to me by Ciaran. If Angus ever saw it, it would break him.

  Ciaran gave it to me the night we pledged ourselves to each other. He said that if you place it beneath the house, the tick of the watch will keep the hearts beating within steady and faithful. Is my holding on to it a selfish hope that Ciaran somehow will find his way back into my life? I must not even think such thoughts. I’ve chosen to live my life with Angus, and that’s all there is to it.

  Next month Angus and I will leave this dreadful city for a new home upstate. I mu
st end this heartsick madness now. I can’t bring myself to destroy the watch, but I won’t take it, either. Angus and I will move on. The watch will stay here.

  Ciaran had been Maeve’s mùirn beatha dàn, but he had lied to her, betrayed her. And then, years later, long after she’d rejected him, he had found her and Angus in Meshomah Falls, where he’d trapped them in an abandoned barn and set fire to it. She was pure goodness, he pure evil. How could she have loved him? It was unfathomable. Yet…yet I’d loved Cal, who had nearly killed me the same way Ciaran killed Maeve.

  I needed to know more. I needed to understand, as much to silence my questions about myself as to know Maeve more fully.

  When we’d made the plan to come to New York, it had dawned on me that while we were there, I’d be only a subway ride from where Maeve and Angus had lived. If I could find their apartment, then maybe, just maybe, I’d find the watch. Maeve had said she was leaving it behind, after all. I knew the odds were heavily against its still being there—it had been almost twenty years ago, and even if she’d hidden the watch, surely someone would have found it. Still, I couldn’t let the idea go. I wasn’t even sure why I was so obsessed with the watch. Morbid fascination? I needed to see it, hold it.

  Of course, I realized that anything touched by Ciaran was tainted, even potentially dangerous. Which was why I hadn’t mentioned the watch to Hunter or anyone. Hunter would never approve of my doing anything remotely risky. But I had to try to find it.

  I tucked the athame and the Book of Shadows back into my pack. At home I’d tried scrying with fire for Maeve’s old Manhattan address. All I’d seen was a vision of the inside of a dingy apartment. Granted, most witches considered fire the most difficult medium with which to scry, but I had a natural connection to it, another gift from Maeve. But what the fire revealed was only a second cousin to what I asked for, close but not quite right. Was I doing it wrong?