Night's Child

by Cate Tiernan

  Two pairs of blue eyes looked at her. Tess's were expectant, shrewd. Vita's were politely disbelieving. "So you've not mentioned your unquenchable love for Ian Delaney, son of Lilith Delaney, high priestess of Ealltuinn," Vita stated. "Ealltuinn, who's been getting members of Belwicket up in arms because they don't seem to know the boundary of when it's not right to use magick?"

  "It's not unquenchable love, and no, I've not mentioned it," Moira said pointedly. "Am I supposed to only date Belwicket lads, then? There's precious few. Or should I try a nonwitch?"

  Half smiling, Tess held up her hands as if to say she gave up.

  "Just wanted to ask," Vita murmured, shrugging. "I mean, everything aside, lan's deadly hot. No one says he isn't."

  Moira paused. "Wait-he's coming up!" She bent over her latte, face carefully expressionless. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ian the second he passed the top step into the cafe. She looked anywhere but at him, shooting subtle but threatening looks at Tess and Vita, each of whom was trying to smother a smile.

  "So," said Tess brightly. "You want to take in a film this weekend, then?"

  Moira nodded as if it were a serious question. "Yeah, maybe so." Her eyes widened as she realized Ian was coming straight at their table, a mug in his hand.

  "Moira!" he said.

  She looked up with an Oscar-worthy expression of surprise. "Oh, hey there, Ian."

  He smiled down at her, and she felt her heart give a little flip. That smile ...

  "'Lo, Ian," said Tess, and Vita smiled at him.

  "Hi," he said, and Moira loved the fact that his gaze didn't linger on either of her (she thought) prettier or more feminine friends. Instead he looked right at her, his chestnut brown hair flecked with mist, his eyes dark blue and smiling. "I don't want to interrupt-I was just downstairs and fan-cied a drink. It's wet outside."

  "Do you want to sit down?" Moira asked, mentally patting herself on the back for her boldness.

  "Aye, sure," he said, pleased. He asked a neighboring table if he could take a chair, then pulled it over and wedged it right next to Moira's. She could hardly keep herself from wiggling with happiness. Cool. I'm very cool, she thought, feeling almost glad about her green-streaked hair.

  "Oh! Look at the time!" Tess said in a non-Oscar-worthy performance, complete with wide eyes and O-shaped mouth. "I have to be getting off. Mum'll slay me if I'm late again." She stood and pulled on her suede jacket.

  "I didn't mean to interrupt anything," Ian said again, concerned.

  "Not at all," Tess assured him. "Pure coincidence. Come on, then, Vi."

  "Why?" Vita frowned. "Your mum won't slay me if I'm late."

  Tess just stared at her, and then Vita got it.

  "Right. I'm late, too." She stood up and pulled on her plaid trench coat. "Later on, Moira. Nice seeing you, Ian."

  "You too," he said.

  Then they were gone, and Moira and Ian were sharing a table alone for the first time. Moira felt all quivery inside, happy and anxious at once. Her latte was ice-cold, and she quickly circled her hand over it, deasil, and murmured, "Heat within." Ian sipped his mug of tea. Just as Moira was starting to feel alarmed by the lingering silence, Ian said, "I was looking at books downstairs." "Oh?" Yes, that was witty. You go, Moira. "I've always liked the illustrated books-the ones with old-fashioned pictures of witches. Or the really pretty flower ones." Do I really sound this stupid?

  Ian didn't seem to think so. He only said, "Yeah. I love the plant ones. I'm still taking private herbology lessons."

  "But you got initiated last year, right?"

  "Yeah, they usually do it at fourteen in my coven," he replied. "You're not initiated yet?"

  "No. I'm aiming for next Beltane. Me and Tess and Vita."

  "Well, you've got some time, then."

  Moira nodded. "We're all taking classes-spellcraft, herbology, astrology, animal work. The usuals."

  "What's your favorite?"

  He's interested in me! "I like spellcraft." She couldn't help smiling, remembering her ladybug triumph. "Last weekend I wrote a new spell by myself. I spelled ladybugs to form my initials on my garden wall."

  Ian laughed. "Did it work? Or did you just get a bunch of confused, ready-to-hibernate ladybugs? Or maybe bees?"

  Grinning, Moira knocked her side against him, then was thrilled at the warm contact. "Yes, it worked." The truth was, she'd been pretty amazed herself-but she didn't want Ian to know that.

  "Yeah? Ladybugs spelled out your initials? That's very cool," said Ian, looking impressed. "And you're not even initiated yet. But I guess you've got your mother's power, then."

  Self-consciously Moira shrugged, although by now she was used to having a mother who was famous in Wiccan circles. All of Moira's life, she'd heard people speaking respectfully about Morgan Byrne of Belwicket-her powers, her incredibly strong healing gifts, the promise of her craft. Moira was proud of her mum, but at the same time it was hard, always wondering if she would ever measure up.

  "With your powers, why weren't you initiated earlier?" Ian asked. "It seems like you would be amazing by now."

  "You don't think I'm amazing?" Moira said teasingly, feeling incredibly daring. She had a moment of anxiety when Ian quit smiling and just looked at her thoughtfully. I went too far, I went too far-

  "No," he said quietly. "I do think you're amazing."

  Her face lit up, and she forgot to be cool. "I think you're amazing, too."

  "Oh, yes, me," Ian said. "I can move forks. Look."

  As Moira watched, Tess's leftover fork slid slowly toward her, about an inch. Moira grinned and raised her eyebrows at him, and he looked pleased.

  "Pretty good," she said, an idea popping into her mind. Hopefully she could pull it off. "Watch this," she said boldly. "Look at everyone in the room who's reading"-which was three-quarters of the people there. Most tables seemed to have an open book or magazine or paper on them. Moira closed her eyes and pictured what she wanted to do, tamping down the mote of conscience that wairned her it was probably not a good idea. Right, then, I hope this works.

  All the pages move as one, as if the story's just begun. I flip the pages lightly so, and my will tells them where to go.

  Then, seeing it in her mind, Moira turned one page in each paper, book, or magazine throughout the cafe at Margath's Faire. In perfect unison, every piece of reading material in the room had one page turned. Most people noticed, and the witches in the room instantly looked up to see who had done it. Hearing that it had worked, Moira opened her eyes and carefully looked at no one besides Ian. She finished the last bit of her latte and gave Ian a private smile, thrilled that she'd really done it.

  "That was bloody beautiful," Ian breathed, looking at her in a way that made her feel shivery. "So delicate and simple, yet so awesome." He took her hand, and Moira loved the feel of his warmth, their fingers intertwining. His hand was larger than hers, which made her feel better, because in fact Ian was only the same height she was.

  I'm holding hands with Ian Delaney, Moira thought, letting happiness wash over her.

  "I'm impressed, Moira of Belwicket," he said quietly, looking at her. "You are your mother's daughter."

  2

  Morgan

  "Thank you for coming." A man with a weathered face and brown hair gone mostly gray stepped forward and took one of Morgan's hands in his.

  "Hello," she said quietly, giving him a smile. Automatically Morgan sent out waves of reassurance and calm, trying to soothe nerves stretched taut by fear and worry. Since she'd lost her husband, Colm, six months ago, it had been a struggle to continue her work without her emotions interfering. But she needed the salary from the New Charter to support herself and her daughter, and also, she needed the relief from her own sadness that came from helping others. Luckily Morgan had been honing her skills as a healer for years now, and the routine of easing someone's concern was second nature.

  "You must be Andrew Moffitt," she said. She was in the county hospital in Youghal,
a town not far from where she lived, right outside of Cobh, Ireland. The Moffitts' daughter was in the last bed in a long, old-fashioned ward that housed eight patients. "Aye," he said with a quick bob of his head. "And this is my missus, Irene."

  A small woman wearing an inexpensive calico dress nodded nervously. Her large green eyes were etched with sadness, the lines around her mouth deep and tight. Her hair was pulled back into a simple braid, practical for a farmer's wife.

  "Hello, Irene," Morgan said. She reached out and took one of Irene's hands, sending her a quick bit of strength and peace. Irene gave her a questioning glance, then shot an anxious look at her husband. "Irene, you seem unsure." Morgan's voice was gentle and compassionate.

  Irene's eyes darted around the room, pausing to linger on the pale, thin girl lying in the hospital bed. The hushed whoosh, whoosh of machines filled the small room, with a steady beeping of the heart monitor keeping time.

  "I don't hold with this," Irene said in a low voice. "We're Catholics, we are. I don't want to lose my Amy, but maybe it's the Lord's will." Her face crumpled slightly.

  Morgan put down her large canvas carryall and deliberately sent out more general calming waves. "I understand," she said. "As much as you desperately love your daughter and pray for-her recovery, you might not want it if it means endangering her soul. Or yours."

  "Yes," Irene said, sounding relieved and surprised that Morgan understood. Of course Irene couldn't know that Morgan had been raised by devout Catholics, Sean and Mary Grace Rowlands, and knew better than many the fears Catholics had about witchcraft. "Yes, that's it exactly. I mean, she's my baby, but. . ." Again, withheld sobs choked her. "It's just-Eileen Crannach, from church-she told us what you'd done for her nephew, Davy. Said it was a miracle, it was. And we're so desperate-the doctors can't do much for her."

  "I understand," Morgan said again. "Here, sit down." She led Irene to one of the two nearby plastic visitor chairs and sat down in the other one. Looking up, she beckoned Andrew to come closer. In a low voice she said, "I can promise you that anything I do would never have evil intent. I seem to have a gift for healing. My using that gift feels, to me, what you would describe as the Lord's will. Here's another way of looking at it: maybe it was the Lord's will that brought me to you. Maybe your Lord wants to do his work through me."

  Irene gaped. "But you're not Catholic," she whispered. "You're a . . . witch!" The word itself seemed to frighten her, and she looked around to make sure no one else had heard.

  Morgan smiled, thinking of her adoptive mother. "Even so. He works in mysterious ways."

  An unspoken consultation passed between Andrew and Irene, looking into each other's eyes. Morgan sat quietly, using the time to cast her senses toward Amy. Amy was in a coma. From what Andrew Moffitt had gruffly told Morgan on the phone, Amy's brother had been practicing fancy skateboard moves, and in one of them he'd shot the board out from under his feet. Amy had been playing nearby, and the edge of the board caught her right in the neck, cracking her spine. But they hadn't realized the extent of her injuries, and over the next several days the swelling and injury had been worsened by her everyday activities. They hadn't even known anything was wrong until Amy had collapsed on the school playground.

  She'd had surgery six days ago and hadn't come out of it.

  "Do what you can for Amy," Andrew said, calling Morgan back to the present. "All right," said Morgan, and that was all.

  Because she was in a county hospital, with people coming and going constantly, Morgan couldn't use any of her more obvious tools, like candles and incense and her four silver cups. However, she did slip a large, uncut garnet beneath Amy's pillow to help her in her healing rite.

  "If you could just try to keep anyone from touching me or talking to me," she whispered, and wide-eyed, the Moffitts nodded.

  Morgan stood at Amy's bedside, opening her senses and picking up as much as she could. Right now Amy was on a respirator, but her heart was beating on its own and everything else seemed to be working. There was an incision on her neck with a thin plastic drain running out of it. That was where she could start.

  First things first. Morgan rolled her shoulders and tilted her head back and forth, releasing any tension or stiffness. She breathed in and out, deep cleansing breaths that helped relax and center her. Then, closing her eyes, she silently and without moving her lips began her power chant, the one that reached out into the world and drew magick to her, the one that helped raise her own powers within her. It came to her, floating toward her like colored ribbons on the mildest of spring breezes. Feeling the magick bloom inside her, Morgan felt a fierce love and joy flood her. She was ready.

  As lightly as a feather, Morgan placed two fingers on Amy's incision. At once she picked up the drug-dulled sensations of pain, the swollen sponginess of inflamed cells, the cascading dominoes of injuries that had escalated, unchecked, until Amy lost consciousness. Slowly Morgan traced the injuries until she reached the last and mildest one. Then, following them like a thread, she did what she could to heal them. Clots dissolved with a steady barrage of spells. Muscles soothed, ten-dons eased, veins gently reopened. Morgan's mind traced new pathways, delicate, fernlike branches of energy, and soon felt the rapid fire of neuron impulses racing across them. Love, she thought. Love and hope, joy and life. The blessing of being able to give. How blessed I am. These feelings she let flow into Amy's consciousness.

  The injury itself was complicated, but Morgan broke it down into tiny steps, like the different layers of a spell, the different steps one had to learn, all throughout Wicca. As with anything else, it was the tiny steps that added up to create a wondrous whole. Morgan banished the excess fluid at the site, dispersing it through now-open paths. She calmed swollen muscles and helped the skin heal more rapidly. The final step of this first stage was the actual crack in the spinal column, where a minute shift of bone had compressed the nerves. The bone was edged back into place, and Morgan felt the instantaneous Tightness and perfect fit of it She encouraged the bone to start knitting together. The crushed nerves were slowly, painstakingly restored, with new routes being created where necessary. Then she waited and listened to the overall response of Amy's body. It was sluggish, but functioning. With every beat of Amy's heart it got stronger, worked better, flowed more smoothly. It would take longer to heal completely, Morgan knew. Maybe months. But this was a great start

  Her own strength was flagging. Healing took so much energy and concentration that Morgan always felt completely drained afterward. This was the most difficult case she'd had in months, and it would leave Morgan herself weak for several days. But it wasn't over. Amy's body was functioning. Now she had to find Amy. Ignoring her fatigue, Morgan concentrated even deeper, silently using spells that would link Amy's consciousness with hers in a tath meanma, a joining of their minds. Amy wasn't a blood witch, so it wouldn't feel good for either one of them, and Amy's ability to either receive or send energy was going to be very limited. Amy's spirit was sleeping. It had shut down and withdrawn to escape the horror of paralysis, the pain of the injury and the surgery, and the flood of nerve- shattering emotions that everyone around Amy was releasing.

  Amy? Are you there?

  Who-who are you?

  I'm here to help. It's time to come back now. Morgan was firm and kind.

  No. It's too yucky.

  It's not so yucky anymore. It's time to come back. Come back and see your mum and dad. They're waiting for you.

  They're still here?

  They would never leave you. Come back now.

  Will it hurt? Her voice was young and afraid.

  A little bit. You have to be strong and brave. But it won't be as bad as it was before, I promise.

  Very slowly and gently Morgan eased her consciousness back, then swayed on her feet as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. But she backtracked quickly to herself, sent a last, strong healing spell, and opened her eyes. She blinked several times and swallowed, feeling as if she were about to fall ove
r. Slowly she took her hand away from Amy's neck.

  With difficulty, she turned to Andrew and Irene and smiled weakly. Then, knowing Amy could breathe on her own, she carefully disconnected the mouthpiece from the respirator.

  "No!" Amy's mother cried, lunging forward to stop her. Her husband grabbed her, and in the next moment Amy coughed and gagged, then drew a deep, whistling breath around the tube that was still in her throat.

  Her parents stared.

  "You need to get a nurse to take out the tube," Morgan said softly, still feeling only half there. She swallowed again and glanced at the clock. It was three in the afternoon. She'd arrived at nine that morning. Time hadn't made an impression on her during the healing.

  Then Andrew seemed to notice her, and his heavy eyebrows drew together in concern. "Here, miss. Let me get you some tea." Awkwardly Morgan moved to a chair and dropped into it. Andrew pressed a hot Styrofoam cup into her hand and appeared not to notice her quickly circling her hand over her tea. She drank down half of it at once. It helped.

  Irene's anxious calls had alerted a nurse, who, faced with the undeniable fact that Amy was breathing on her own, removed the respirator tube. She watched in shock as Amy gagged again and took several convulsive breaths. Andrew and Irene gripped each other's hands tightly as they stared down at their daughter. Then Irene tentatively reached out and took her daughter's hand.

  "Amy, darling. Amy, it's Mum. I'm right here, love, and so is Da. We're right here, lass."

  Morgan sipped her tea. There was nothing more she could do. Amy had to choose to come back.

  In the hospital bed the pale, still figure seemed small and fragile. She was breathing more regularly now, with only the occasional cough. Suddenly her eyelids fluttered open for a moment, revealing a pair of green eyes just like her mum's. Her parents gasped and leaned closer.

  "Amy!" Irene cried as a doctor strode quickly toward them. "Amy! Love!"

  Amy licked her lips slightly, and her eyes fluttered again. Her mouth seemed to form the word Mum, and her pinkie finger on her left hand raised slightly.