by Cate Tiernan
Gently Cal took the book from me and tucked it under his arm. "I'll get it for you," he said, kissing me. "As a pre-birthday present"
I nodded, feeling my concerns evaporate in a wash of pleasure. My seventeenth birthday was still eight days away. I was surprised and thrilled that Cal was thinking about it already.
We started walking through the store. I'd never been here with Cal, and he showed me hidden treasures I'd never noticed before. First we looked at candles. Each color of candle had different properties, and Cal told me about which I ones were used in which rituals. My mind whirled with all of the names. There was so much to learn. Next we examined sets of small bowls. Wiccans used them to hold salt or other ritual substances, like water or incense. Cal told me that when he lived in California, he and Selene had spent a whole summer gathering ocean water and evaporating it for the salt. They saved the salt and used it to purify their circles for almost a year afterward.
After that we saw brass bells that helped charge energy fields during a circle, and Cal pointed out magickally charged twine and thread and ink. These were everyday objects, but they had been transformed. Like me, I thought. I almost laughed aloud with pleasure. Magick was in everything, and a truly knowledgeable witch could use literally anything to imbue spells with power. I'd had glimpses of this knowledge before, but with Cal here—really showing it to me—it seemed more real, more accessible, and infinitely more exciting than it ever had before.
And everywhere there were books: on runes, on how the positions of the stars affected one's spells, on the healing uses of magic, on how to increase one's power. Cal pointed out several he thought I should read but said he had copies and would lend them to me.
"Do you have a magickal robe yet?" he suddenly asked. He gestured to one on a rack near the rear of the store. It was made of deep blue silk that flowed like water.
I shook my head.
"l think that by Imbolc we should start using robes in our circles," he said. "I'll speak to the others about it. Robes are usually better than street clothes for making magick: you wear them only when you're doing magick, so they don't get contaminated with the jangled vibrations of the rest of your life. And they're comfortable, practical."
I nodded, brushing my hand against the fabric of the different robes. The variety was astounding. Some were plain; some were painted or sewn with magickal symbols and runes. But I didn't see any that I felt I absolutely had to have, though they were all beautiful. That was okay, though; Imbolc wasn't until the end of January. I had plenty of time to find one.
"Do you wear a robe?" I asked.
"Uh-huh," he said. "Whenever I do a circle with my mom or by myself. Mine is white, a really heavy linen. I've had it a couple of years. I sort of wish I could wear it all the time,"
he added with a grin. "But I don't think the people of Widow's Vale are ready for that."
I laughed, picturing him casually walking into Schweickhardt's drugstore in a long, white robe.
"Sometimes robes are passed down from generation to generation," Cal continued. "Like tools. Or sometimes people weave the cloth and sew them themselves. It's like anything else—the more thought and energy you put into something, the more it stores up magickal energy and the more it can help you focus when you do spells."
I was beginning to understand that, although I knew I would spend a lot of time meditating on how I could start applying it to my own magickal doings.
Cal stepped across the aisle and reached for something on an upper shelf. It was an athame: a ceremonial dagger, about ten inches long. The blade was made of silver, so brightly polished, it looked like a mirror. It's handle was carved with silver roses. There was a skull joining the handle and the blade together.
“It's beautiful isn't it?”Cal murmured.
“Why does it have a skull on it?”I asked.
“To remind us that in life, there is always death,”he said quietly, turning it in his fingers. “There is darkness in light, there is pain in joy, and there are thorns on the rose.” He sounded solemn and thoughtful, and I shivered.
Then he glanced up at me. “Maybe a certain lucky someone will get it for her birthday.”
I wiggled my eyebrows, looking hopeful, and he laughed.
It was getting late, and I had to get home. Cal checked out, buying some green candles, some incense, and the book for me. I felt Alyce's eyes on me.
"Nothing for you?" she asked in her gentle way.
I shook my head.
She hesitated, then cast a quick glance at Cal. "I have something I think you should read," she said to me. Moving with surprising grace for a short, round person, she left the counter and walked down the aisle of books. I shrugged at Cal—and then Alyce was back, her lavender skirts swishing. She handed me a plain, dark brown book.
"Woodbane, Fact and Fiction," I read aloud. A chill shot through my body. The Woodbanes were the darkest of the seven ancient Wiccan clans, notorious for their quest for power at any cost. The evil ones. I looked at her, baffled. "Why should I read this?" I asked.
Alyce met my gaze squarely. "It's an interesting book that debunks many of the myths surrounding the Woodbanes," she said, ringing it up. "It's useful for any student of the craft."
I didn't know what to say, but I pulled out my wallet and counted out money, pushing the bills across the counter. I trusted Alyce. If she thought I should read this, I would. But at the same time I was aware of tension tightening Cal's body. He wasn't angry, but he seemed hyperalert, watching Alyce, watching me, measuring everything. I put my arm around his waist and gave him a reassuring squeeze. He smiled.
"Good-bye, Alyce," I said. "Thanks."
"My pleasure," she replied. "Good-bye, Morgan. Goodbye, Cal."
I held my two new books under my arm as we walked to the door—one book I wanted to read, one I didn't. Yet I would read them both. Although I had been studying witchcraft for barely two months, I had already learned a valuable lesson: Everything had two sides. I had to take the good with the bad, the fun with the discomfort, the excitement with the fear. The thorns with the rose.
Cal pushed open the door, and the bells jingled.
He stopped so suddenly that I walked right into his back.
"Oof," I said, steadying myself. I peeked around him.
That was when I saw what had made him pause.
It was Hunter Niall, crouched in the street, looking under Cal's car.
4. Spell
Litha, 1990
I'm frightened. I woke up this morning to the sound of weeping. Alwyn and Linden were in my room. They were crying because they could not find Mum and Dad. I was angry and told them that they weren't babies anymore. I said that Mum and Dad would be back soon. I thought they must have run into town for something we needed.
But night has fallen and we are still alone. I've heard no word from our neighbors, none from Mum and Dad's coven, I went to Siobhan's house, and to Caradog Owens's house over in Grasmere, to ask if they knew where Mum and Dad were. But there was no one home.
And there's something else. When I was making my bed I found Dad's lueg under my pillow-the stone he uses to scry with. How did it get there? He always keeps it safe with the rest of his magick tools. He never even let me touch it before.
So how did it get under my pillow? I have a bad feeling....
Dad has often told me that when he and Mum are on their errands, I am master of the house. It is my job to watch over my brother and sister. But I am not a man like him. I am only eight years old. I won't be a witch for many years yet. What can I do if there is trouble?
What if something happened to them? They have never left us alone like this. Did someone take them away? Are they being held prisoner somewhere?
I must sleep, but I can't. Alwyn and Linden can sleep for me. I must be strong for them.
Mum and Dad will come back to us soon. They will. I know it.
Goddess, bring them home.
-Giomanach
As if he sensed o
ur approach, Hunter stood quickly. His green eyes were puffy and bloodshot His face was pale from the cold, and snowflakes had settled on his hat. But aside from the redness of his eyes, he looked like he was carved of marble—still and somehow dangerous. Why was he looking under the car? More important, why did I find him so threatening? I didn't know the answers, but I knew that as a blood witch, I should trust my instincts. I shuddered inside my coat.
"What are you doing, Niall?" Cal demanded. His voice was so low and steady that I hardly recognized it I looked at him and saw that his jaw was tight His hands were clenched at his sides.
"Just admiring your big American car," Hunter said. He sniffed, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket He must have a cold, I thought I wondered how long he'd been out here in the snow.
Cal flicked his gaze to the Explorer, sweeping it from bumper to bumper, as if scanning for something out of place.
"Hello, Morgan," Hunter murmured. With his sickly nasal voice the greeting sounded like an insult. "Interesting f company you keep."
The falling snowflakes were cold against my hot skin. I shifted my books to my other arm and gazed at Hunter, confused. Why should he care?
Hunter stepped onto the sidewalk. Cal turned to face him, placing himself between me and Hunter. My hero, I thought But a part of me still felt a palpable fear as well. Hunter scowled, his cheekbones so sharp that snowflakes seemed to glance off them.
"So Cal is teaching you the secrets of Wicca, is he?" he asked. He leaned nonchalantly against the hood of the car, and Cal didn't take his eyes off him for a second. "Of course, ' he has quite a few secrets of his own, eh?"
"You can leave now, Niall," Cal spat.
"No, I think not," Hunter replied evenly. "I think I'll be around for a while. Who knows, I might have to teach Morgan a thing or two myself."
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked.
Hunter just shrugged.
"Get away from me," Cal commanded.
Hunter stood back with a slight smile, his hands in the air as if to show he was unarmed. Cal glanced from him to the car. I'd never seen Cal so angry, so on the verge of losing control. It frightened me. He was like a tiger, waiting to pounce.
"There is one thing you should learn, Morgan," Hunter remarked. "Cal isn't the only blood witch around. He'd like to think he's a big man, but he's really just small fry. One day you'll realize that. And I want to be there to see it."
"Go to hell," Cal spat.
"Look, you don't know me," I told Hunter loudly. "You don't know anything about me. So shut up and leave us alone!" I stomped angrily to the car. But as I pushed past Hunter, barely brushing against him, a sickening rush of energy hit me in my stomach—so hard that I gasped. He's put a spell on me, I thought in a panic, groping for the door handle. But he'd said nothing, he'd done nothing that I could see. I blinked hard.
"Please, Cal," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Let's go."
Cal was still staring at Hunter as if he'd like to rip him apart His eyes blazed, and his skin seemed to whiten.
Hunter stared back, but I felt his concentration break: he was shaken for a moment. Then he steeled himself again.
"Please, Cal," I repeated. I knew something had happened to me; I felt hot and strange and desperate to be gone, to be at home. My voice must have alerted Cal to my distress because he took his eyes off Hunter for a second. I stared at him pleadingly. Finally he pulled his keys from his pocket, slid into the car, and opened my door.
I collapsed inside and put my hands over my face.
"Good-bye, Morgan!" Hunter called.
Cal gunned the engine and sped backward, shooting snow and ice toward Hunter. I peeked through my fingers and saw Hunter standing there with an indecipherable expression on his face. Was it... anger? No. Snow swirled around him as he watched us leave.
It wasn't until we were almost at my house that it suddenly hit me.
The look on his face had been hunger.
5. Dagda
Beltane, 1992
I feel like punching everyone and everything. I have my life, hate living with Uncle Beck and Aunt Shelagh. Nothing has been the same, not since Mum and Dad disappeared that day two years ago, and it never will be.
Today Linden fell off Uncle Beck's ladder and bloodied his knee. I had to clean him up and bandage the wound, and all the while he wept. And I cursed Mum and Dad while I did it, I cursed then for leaving us and leaving me to do their job. Why did they go? Where did they go? Uncle Beck knows, but he won't tell me. He says I am not ready. Aunt Shelagh says he's only thinking of my good. But how can it be good not to know the truth? I hate “Uncle Beck.
In the end, when I was finished with Linden, I made a face, and he laughed through his tears. That made me feel better. But only for a while. No happiness lasts very long. That's what I've learned. Linden would do well to learn it, too.
-Giomanach
Mom came into my room that night as I was getting dressed to go to Jenna Ruiz's for the circle. "Are you guys going to a movie?" she asked. She automatically began straightening the pile of rejected clothes on my bed.
"No," I said, and left it at that. When it came to Wicca, silence was the best policy. I turned in front of the mirror, frowning. As usual, I looked hopeless. I pulled open the bathroom door and yelled, "Mary K.!" Having an endlessly trendy sister had its perks.
She appeared at once.
I held out my arms. "Help."
Her warm brown eyes skimmed me critically, then she shook her head. "Take it all off," she ordered. I obeyed meekly. Mom grinned at us. While Mary K. pawed through my closet, Mom tried to wheedle more information from me. "You said you were going to Jenna's? Will Bree be there?"
I paused for a moment. Both Mary K. and Mom had mentioned Bree today. I wasn't really surprised; she had been a virtual fixture at our house for years—but talking about her was painful. "I don't think so," I finally said. "It's just going to be our regular group, getting together. You know, I've never been to Jenna's house before." A lame attempt to change the subject, I knew. Mary K. threw a pair of skinny jeans at me, and I obediently shimmied into them.
"We never see Bree anymore," Mom commented as Mary K. disappeared into her room.
I nodded, aware of Mom's eyes on me.
"Did you guys have a fight?" Mom asked straight out. Mary K. returned, holding an embroidered cotton sweater.
"Kind of," I said with a sigh. I really didn't want to get into this, not now. I pulled off my sweatshirt and tugged on the sweater. It fit smoothly, to my surprise. I'm taller and thinner than Mary K., but she inherited my mom's curvy chest. My adoptive mom, that is. I wondered fleetingly if Maeve Riordan had been built like me.
"Did you fight over Wicca?" Mom pried with the subtlety of an ax. "Does Bree not like Wicca?"
"No," I said, pulling my hair out of the sweater and examining my new look. It was a big improvement, which lifted my mood a little. "Bree does Wicca, too." I sighed again, finally giving in to Mom's interrogation. "Actually, we fought over Cal. She wanted to go out with him, but he wanted to go out with me. Now she pretty much hates me."
Mom was quiet for a moment. Mary K. stared at the floor. "That's too bad," Mom said after a moment. "It's sad when friends fight over a boy." She laughed gently, reassuringly. "Usually the boys aren't worth it"
I nodded. A lump had formed in my throat. I didn't want to talk about Bree anymore; it hurt too much. I checked the clock. "I wish it didn't have to be like this. Anyway, I'm late; I better go." My voice was strained. "Thanks, Mary K." I kissed the air beside Mom's cheek—then I was down the stairs and out the door, pulling on my coat and shivering in the cold.
In a few moments, though, the sadness over Bree began to melt away. I felt a tingle of anticipation. It was circle night
Jenna lived not far from me in a small, Victorian-style house. It was charmingly run-down, with an overgrown yard. The paint was peeling, and one shutter was missing a hinge.
As soon as I walked up the
steps to the porch, a cat greeted me. It meowed and rubbed its head against my legs.
"What are you doing out here?" I whispered as I rang the doorbell.
Jenna opened the door right away, her cheeks flushed, blond hair pulled back, a big smile on her face.
"Hi, Morgan!" she said, then looked down at the cat squeezing its way inside. "Hugo, I told you it was freezing out there! I called you! You ignored me. Now your paws are cold."
I laughed and glanced around to see who was here. No Cal, not yet. Of course, I knew that already; I hadn't seen his car outside, hadn't felt his presence. Robbie was examining Jenna's stereo system, which had a real turntable. A stack of old vinyl records was piled haphazardly next to the fireplace.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," I answered. I was amazed that this was Jenna's home. Jenna was by far one of the most popular girls in school and thoroughly up-to-date, like Mary K.—but her house looked like a throwback to the 1970s. The furniture was comfortably shabby, with plants hung in front of every window, some needing water. There seemed to be dust and cat hair everywhere. And dog hair, I amended, seeing two basset hounds snoring on a dog bed in a corner of the dining room. No wonder Jenna has asthma, I found myself thinking. She'd have to live in a plastic bubble in this house to breathe clean air.
"Want some cider?" Jenna asked, handing me a cup. It was warm and smelled deliciously spicy. I took a sip as the doorbell rang again.
"Hey!" It was Sharon Goodfine. She shrugged off her thick black leather coat and hung it on the stairs' newel post. "Hugo! Don't even think about it!" she cried as the cat reached up to pat her coat with his fat white paws. Obviously she had been here before.
