Stone of jet, hue of night
Help us as we join our sight
Let us scry the one we seek
She whose name we now will speak.
Patrice Pearson.
I traced the rune of Sigel over the stone to help us achieve clarity. Then I concentrated on my heartbeat slowing down, my breathing becoming more shallow, my focus and gaze centering on the stone before me. Almost immediately a very clear image of a dark-haired woman came to me. She was in a darkened room and was lifting something in the air. I didn't realize what it was at first, but then I recognized it as an IV bag. Patrice hooked it onto some sort of metal frame. In the next instant she looked up, as if she had just felt us scrying for her. She frowned.
"Here we go," said Da, and we leaped to our feet. Within seconds the back door of Patrice's house had opened, and we heard the furious barks and snarls of a dog tearing toward us in the dark.
"Run!" I said needlessly-Da was already outpacing me by a yard. We fairly flew through the neighbors' yards, pounded down the sidewalk, and scrabbled at the door handles of my car.
As soon as he slammed the car door shut, we heard a heavy thunk against the metal: the dog hitting the car. Outraged barks were barely muted by the closed windows.
"Goddess," Da breathed, pushing his hair off his face. "Fierce bugger."
I started the engine, planning to do a quick U-turn so I wouldn't have to pass Patrice's house. My father peered through the windows.
"What is it?" I panted, feeling adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I'd been bitten by a dog before, as a Seeker, and it had been incredibly painful. "A Rottweiler? A mastiff?"
My father started chuckling-an unusual sound, coming from him. It sounded like rusty nails being shaken in a can. "It's a dachshund," he said, really starting to laugh. "It's a long-haired dachshund. Look, you can see him when he jumps up to the window."
I looked across and saw a small, elegant brown head lift into my sight for a moment, then sink down again. A moment's pause and then once more his little face appeared, teeth bared viciously, horrible-sounding snarls coming from his throat. Then he sank down, no doubt already mustering the strength for another determined leap.
I snorted with laughter, almost choking, as I pulled slowly and carefully away from the curb. "Oh, Goddess, Goddess," I wheezed. "If that dog had caught us, it would have torn us apart."
"From the knees down, anyway," Da said, and we convulsed with laughter again.
Tomorrow I would need to talk to Celia and Robin.
On Wednesday, I was jolted awake by the ringing of the phone, which I had placed right next to my bed. I grabbed it without opening my eyes."How did it go, my love?" I asked Morgan.
"Okay, I think," she said. "Did I wake you up?"
"It's all right. I was up a bit late last night. But I want to hear what happened."
"I don't think I dreamed," she said, uncertainty in her voice. "I can't remember anything, and I don't think I sleep-walked. But I feel yucky. Weird and uneasy, as if I saw something awful but I'm blocking it out."
"Hmmm. But you remember nothing?"
"No, nothing since I fell asleep. I just feel like I have a storm cloud hanging over my head. I don't know why."
"We're going to unravel this," I promised her. "Very shortly."
"I know," she said, sounding wan. "I'd better go-Mary K. has a pep club meeting before school."
"All right. Call me after school and we'll get together," I said. "I want to see you."
"Okay," she said.
After we hung up, I lay in my bed for a while, worrying about Morgan. I didn't know for certain what was going on with her dreams, but if it was that bastard Cal, come back to haunt her, I was going to destroy him. Somehow.
"Morning, all," said Da as he entered the kitchen about an hour later. His gray hair was recently trimmed, and the more time that passed, the more his rangy frame seemed to fill in.
"Da." I nodded.
"Morning, Uncle Daniel," said Sky. "Cuppa? I've got a pot made."
"Ta, lass," said Da.
"Say, Da," I said. "I've arranged to meet Celia and Robin-those two witches I told you about-downtown in half an hour. Since you know a bit about the case now, do you want to come?" I was happy to spend time with my father again, and truthfully, his quiet, matter-of-fact nature might help keep this meeting from being ugly.
"Yes, if I'm free," he said, taking his first sip of tea. "I'll need to check my book."
It still struck me as odd that my father was becoming so in demand as a speaker and teacher. I would always have that image of him as emaciated hermit in Canada, as he'd been when I'd first found him. It seemed like he was metamorphosing in front of my eyes.
"There they are," I said in a low tone as we entered the coffee shop half an hour later. Once again Celia and Robin had taken the corner table, but unlike last time, the place was much more crowded. My father and I both ordered herbal tea.
"Hello, Celia. Hello, Robin," I said politely as we approached their table. "I hope you don't mind-this is my father, Daniel Niall. I've told him about your case, and I think he could be helpful to us. Da, this is Celia Evans and Robin Goodacre."
They all shook hands, and I was pleased and a little surprised that they recognized his name and looked impressed: the man who wrote the spell to conquer the dark wave.
"Last night my father and I visited Patrice's house," I began, and went on to tell them of what we'd found, the couple of poisonous plants mixed in with the herbs and vegetables. Both women looked concerned.
"Many plants are ornamental," Celia said, obviously looking for a loophole.
"You're right," I agreed, "and I certainly made allowances for that, what bothered me was the placement of the plants. They were in vegetable and herb beds, right next to edible plants that looked similar. Few of them were truly ornamental. In other words, I wasn't concerned about the row of rhododendrons lining her drive. You see the difference?"
Robin nodded reluctantly, and Celia clasped her hands around her glass and frowned.
"There's been no evidence of her trying to poison anyone," she said. "None."
I took a sip of tea. "I know-I'm not suggesting that she's poisoning anyone. It just struck me as interesting."
"Well, you're on the wrong track here," Celia said shortly.
I held up my hands in a placating gesture. "Look, I don't have any definitive answers at this point. It's important that I don't rule out any possibilities-even ones that are hard or ugly or not what you want to hear. I'm either looking for the truth or I'm not. Right?"
Celia set her jaw and deliberately uncoiled her fists. "I'm saying that I feel it's highly unlikely that Patrice could ever poison anyone."
"Right. And it is highly unlikely. But the only thing we can do is look at the whole picture, not just parts of it. Do you agree?"
"Yes. But the scenario you're describing is simply incompatible with Patrice as a person."
"Good," I said. "I would love to be able to tell you that your trust is completely well placed. I hope I can, once I've done more research."
"Well, what do we do now?" asked Celia. "We have circle in two days."
"I need to investigate some more," I told them. "We can't do anything until we know for certain what's going on. It's possible that I'm completely misinterpreting the situation. It's possible that someone or something else is causing the strange fatigue after your circles. However, if Patrice is responsible, if she really is practicing dark magick ... well, in most cases the witches are turned in to the council and stripped of their power."
"We can't have that," Celia said, and Robin shook her head. "Absolutely not," she agreed.
"There must be other options," Celia said. "Perhaps counseling, or an intervention, or simply removing her from her source of power."
"There are always options," I said mildly. "But it may be that Patrice's own actions will cause her options to be narrowed."
Celia and Robin were silent.
I glanced at Da, who had been quiet and watchful during this whole exchange. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and I felt incongruously pleased.
"We need to think about this," said Celia.
"Please, don't do anything until we contact you again," Robin added. She grabbed her purse and stood, and Celia got up as well.
"We're not trying to be difficult or obstructive," Celia assured me. "It's just a complicated situation, and it seems to be getting more complicated. But we'll talk things over and give you some definite direction as soon as we can. Okay?"
I nodded. "I understand."
"Fair winds," Celia murmured as she and Robin brushed past me to the exit.
"And to you," I made the traditional reply.
My tea was now cold. I sighed and heated it up again with a quick circle of my hand.
"If she's working dark magick, our options just went down to one," Da said finally.
"Perhaps," I said. "But perhaps Celia and Robin are right: we can come up with something else. Somehow I don't want to turn her in to the council, not now. We're smart, Da. You're a brilliant spellcrafter. I have strongly honed skills and instincts. Surely between the two of us we can find a different solution."
"Well, we don't have to decide now," my father said, sipping his tea. "If they want you to continue, we'll just concentrate on gathering as much information as we need."
"Right."
9
Morgan
"Night, honey," Mom said. "Don't stay up too late."
"I won't," I said. She smiled and closed the door behind her. I was sitting up in bed, reading the Great Depression chapter in my history textbook-a little light reading to keep my mind off things. Well, I needed to study. And the truth was, I didn't want to go to sleep tonight. Bethany's potion had worked last night, as far as I knew. But I had still felt uncomfortable this morning, like something was off. All of my instincts were telling me that sleep was a bad idea tonight.
It had been so good to see Hunter this afternoon after school. He, Mary K., and I had all gone to the diner out on the highway and had milk shakes. It had seemed so normal, so reassuring. But now I was alone, it was bedtime, and my family was going to sleep around me.
As soon as I heard the door to my parents' room close and heard Mary K. get into her own bed, I put down my book and pulled out a slim magazine: Green Gage, a quarterly journal of modern Wicca. I loved their articles-in this issue there were recipes for light summery drinks and how to imbue them with magickal properties. There were features on summer gardening and on various crafts, like sewing, basket weaving, and spinning your own yarn.
When I cast out my senses, I found that everyone was asleep, probably having normal dreams about forgetting to study for a test, or that one that Mom had told me about, where she dreamed she sold the perfect house for a ton of money and when she proudly threw open the door for the new owners, it was a total wreck inside. Those were the kinds of dreams I could handle.
It was eleven-fifteen. My eyelids felt a little heavy, but I wasn't about to give myself over to sleep. I padded downstairs barefoot and got a glass of juice from the fridge. I took it into the family room, where the family computer was set up. Dad had recently gotten a cable modem and now we were always online and fast, fast, fast. I loved it.
I did a search for dream magick/Wicca, and that turned up some useful sites. Forty minutes later my eyes felt gritty and the glare of the computer screen in the dark room was giving me a headache. I still didn't want to dream, but if I took Bethany's potion now, it would surely knock me out safely. I clicked on one more Wiccan site and found a mention of a disclosure-type spell, one to reveal who was expending energy on you: people who were thinking a lot about you, working for you or against you, people who had strong emotions about you. I shrugged. It was worth a try. It wasn't like I'd found anything else.
I printed out the page and went up to my room. After a short internal struggle-was I ready to risk another dream?-I surrendered to exhaustion and gulped down the second half of Bethany's potion. It would take almost an hour to kick in. I would probably be a mess at school the next day, but oh, well. Inside my room I did a quick delay spell on the door, then got my magick-making supplies from my closet. I set out my four element cups and drew three circles of protection before casting the final circle. Then I sat cross-legged inside the circle and lit a single candle, invoking the Goddess and the God. I also gave thanks for everything in my life that was going well. I was learning that expressing gratitude for everything I possibly could helped dispel some of the negativity I picked up without even trying.
The page with the spell was on the ground next to me, and I read the words carefully. Some of them were in Gaelic, written out phonetically so that they were easy to pronounce. At the appropriate times I drew the runes Ansur, Eolh, Daeg, and Sigel in the air above the candle. Then, facing the candle, I pressed two fingers from each hand over my eyes and tried to see with my "inner eye," the one that sees reality with no interpretation.
Soon I saw Hunter's image, and followed by that, like a page flipping in a book, I saw Alyce's image and Bethany's- they were concerned about me and trying to help me. More faintly I saw my own family, who loved me but didn't seem actively worried about me, which was good. Then they faded away, and I saw the fuzzy outline of a shadow, huge and distorted on a wall. It became slightly clearer, darker, enough so that I could tell it was a person. I kept watching and once more murmured the words of the spell. As I watched, the shadow seemed to come away from the wall, becoming more three-dimensional, as if the shadow itself was assuming a form. Reveal yourself, I breathed. Reveal yourself.
As if from a distance the shadowy form contracted and writhed and expanded. Finally it took on a form I could recognize: a hawk. Another hawk! Dumbstruck, I watched it fly away, and then I slowly opened my eyes.
Why couldn't I see who it had been? Was it Cal, as everyone seemed to think? How could he do this? I had felt his cold cheek-he had truly been dead.
I dismantled the circle and put my supplies away. In my readings I had learned that most Wiccans believed when someone died, their anam went to the netherland, a kind of holding place. In the netherland their life is reviewed, and a person can then choose to come back to this world in a new incarnation, ever working toward that spiritual perfection that will allow them to join with the Goddess as one. It was a nice idea. I had grown up believing in Catholicism's idea of heaven, and I could still see the appeal of a perfect resting place. But I liked Wicca's chance to come back again and try to do better with your life.
A few sources I had found discussed the ability of an anam actually to linger in the world without immediately going to the netherland. They had suggested that for an anam to retain any of its power or coherence, it had to have another vessel to reside in. It could be a literal vessel, like a metal box or glass jar with a lid-or in extreme cases it could be another person or even an animal. Like a hawk.
As soon as I had that thought, a cold chill washed over me. A hawk. Was there any way-oh, Goddess, I couldn't think about this. I was really getting paranoid. As Hunter said, hawks were all over the place, everywhere. The images of hawks in my dreams were probably representative of something else, like a generalized threat of some kind. Okay. But what if it was a person doing this to me? These dreams seemed so personal. It would have to be someone who knew me, even knew me well, or at least could find out a great deal of personal information about me.
Ciaran? My natural father had had his powers stripped, so it couldn't be him. But what about other witches from Amyranth? How could I find out?
Killian.
It took me a minute to find my half brother's latest phone number and go back down to the family room. When I called, I got a disconnect message. I called information and got another number for him, and amazingly, when I called it, my half brother answered. On the seventh ring.
"Morgan! How lovely to hear from you!"
I couldn't help smiling.
For all of Killian's character flaws, I couldn't help responding to his good nature, his affection, his unquenchable thirst for fun. And he apparently didn't hold a grudge: the last time I'd seen him had been in the old Methodist cemetery, our local power sink. I had trapped our mutual father there, and his powers had been stripped. Ciaran MacEwan had gone from being an incredibly powerful, charismatic, forceful, and evil witch to being a shriveled, powerless husk. Because of me.
"Hi, Killian," I said. "How are you?"
"Tops, sis, just tops. On my way out-the local watering hole does a bang-up microbrewery stout. The lads are waiting for me."
"I bet. And some lasses, too, no doubt."
Killian laughed.
"Listen, Killian," I said. "I was wondering-I haven't talked to you in a while, and I was hoping you could give me some news about Ciaran."
"Ah," he said, and I had a sudden image of a glass of champagne losing its bubbles. "Our sweet da. Well, sis, I won't lie to you. He has seen better days."
My heart gave a pang of remorse and guilt. "Where is he?" I asked softly.
"A type of rest home in Ireland," said Killian. "Down in Clonakilty, by the southern coast. It's warmer there. Relaxing. I hopped over to see him a fortnight ago. He hasn't really turned a corner yet, I'm afraid."
"I'm sorry." My throat felt tight as I experienced the usual dichotomy of emotions I felt about Ciaran. He had killed my birth mother. He had been one of the leaders of an incredibly evil dark coven, Amyranth. I knew he had personally caused any number of people to be killed, and he had, in fact, tried to kill me. But in an unexplainable psychological perversity, I had loved him and respected him. I had been very drawn to him, and oddly, he had seemed to sincerely care for me, though his love for power had definitely outweighed his love for me. Something in me resonated with something in him, and while that worried me, I also couldn't deny it. I cared about him. I didn't want him to die. But I hadn't been able to let him continue to work the appalling forms of dark magick he had loved.
"Tchah, Morgan," Killian said with unexpected gentleness. "I'm sorry for him, too, but Goddess, this is the threefold law barely coming home to roost. You didn't set him in motion. You only slowed him down a lot."