Strife

  I sensed who was calling a second before the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” I called, starting up from the dining room table, where I was doing my homework. But it was already too late. “Hello?” my mom’s voice said from the kitchen. Dad was working late, so she and I were the only ones home. We’d finished dinner about two hours ago, and Mom had been working on her various documents in the kitchen since then. “Yes, this is she,” I heard her say. “Oh, hello. Yes. What? Well—no, she didn’t. I see. Mmm-hmm.” Even through the door, I could hear the edge of anger dawning in my mom’s voice.

  I stared down at the books and notebooks spread out before me and tried to focus on the analysis of vectors I was doing for physics, but it was no use. “Was that out of a hundred points?” I heard my mother ask, and I bit my lip. After a moment I heard Mom hang up, and the door between the dining room and the kitchen swung open. “Morgan, we need to talk.” Her voice was grim. My stomach churned. I put down my pencil. “Okay.” Sitting down across from me, my mom said, “I just got a phone call from your history teacher, Mr. Powell.”

  I didn’t even bother trying to act surprised. “I know,” I said. “He’s concerned about your grade in his class. So am I.” “I know,” I said again. Shifting in my seat, I added, “I’ve already talked to him about doing some extra credit—”

  Holding up her hand traffic-cop style, my mom cut me off. “Morgan, I’m not happy about the fact that you failed two tests. But I’m even more unhappy about the fact that you hid it from Dad and me. When were you going to tell us?” “I thought that if I brought my grade up—” “But what if you didn’t?” my mom interrupted. “Mr. Powell says that these two exams count for fifty percent of your final grade. Were you going to wait until you failed the class to let us know that there was a problem?” She ran her fingers through her russet hair in an I-don’t-know-what-to-do -with-you gesture. “With extra credit, I could still get a B in the class!” “You could still get an F!” my mom snapped. “Have you even started this extra-credit work?” I dug through my stack of papers and pulled out the notes I’d already made for my history paper. I didn’t realize until after I’d handed them to my mom that I was making a horrible mistake. “This can’t be your history paper.” Mom’s voice was tense. “Whatisthis?” “We’re allowed to write on any subject,” I explained weakly. She simply looked at me for a moment, then slapped the notes down on the table in frustration. “Why do you have to test us? Youknowhow Dad and I feel about witchcraft nonsense!” “The Salem witch trials aren’t nonsense,” I pointed out, my own temper starting to flare. “They were an important historical event.”

  “That’s not the point. Morgan, your interest in Wicca has grown to the point where it’s crowding out almost everything else,” my mom said. “I don’t want you throwing your future away.” “I’m not!” I cried. “How can you say that?” “Look,” my mother went on. “I don’t want to fight about the witch stuff right now. Your grades have to improve, and I don’t see that happening. This is your final warning. If those grades don’t improve, Dad and I are going to start talking seriously about changing your environment.” What? This had never come up before. “What do you mean?”

  “Saint Anne’s has a few openings,” my mother said. “It’s a very good school.”

  My jaw dropped open. “It’s a Catholic school.” My voice was harsh. “You’d really send me to a Catholic school?”

  “Why not? The average class size is fourteen students, so they would be able to give you a lot of individual attention.” She reached out and touched my hair almost pleadingly. “We want to help you, Morgan.”

  I stared at her. As if yanking me away from all my friends and sticking me into a place where they still believed in corporal punishment would help! The wordsI’m not Catholicsprang to my lips, but I couldn’t bring myself to say them. It seemed almost like a declaration of war. It wasn’t exactly true, anyway. Catholicism was the religion I was raised with, and I still felt like Iwasa Catholic in many ways. “Please, Mom,” I answered instead. “Don’t do that. I’ll—I’ll go to the library every day. I’ll bring my grades up, I swear.” “We’ll see.” My mom pushed my history notes across the table at me and stood up. “Family night is tomorrow,” she said wearily. “At six.” “I’ll be there.” My voice sounded hollow. She trudged out of the room. I watched her go, then looked down at my books. I had a lot of work to do.

  “I just don’t think I can study with Erin right now,” I said to Hunter. I was using the phone in the kitchen, summarizing the conversation I’d had with my mom earlier that evening. My parents and Mary K. had gone to bed, but I—the night owl—would be up for another few hours. “I just can’t, can’t get sent to Catholic school.” “That would be awful,” Hunter agreed quietly. “But my grades are really in the gutter.” Hunter sighed. “Isn’t there any way that you can learn from Erin and still improve your grades?” he asked. “We can try to make sure you have time to finish your schoolwork, too. It’s very important that you study with Erin right now. Especially with all the mysterious things that have been happening.”

  Pushing aside some of my mom’s paperwork detritus, I made room for the cup of tea I’d just brewed. I took a sip, debating whether or not to tell Hunter what had happened with Erin earlier that day. “Actually, Erin doesn’t even want to teach me magick,” I admitted finally. “She just wants me to study witch history and plants.” “Those things are important, too,” Hunter replied. I stared at the receiver a minute, unable to believe he was taking her side. How typical. “Oh, yeah, they’ll come in real handy if I’m ever attacked by the dark forces,” I said sarcastically. “I’m here to protect you in case that happens,” Hunter reminded me. “And basic knowledge is necessary to learn more advanced magick. Witch history, herbs, runes—all of these things are part of the initiation rites. Erin is right to make sure you know them. Once you’re a full apprentice, then you can start learning more magick and more spells. You know more than most initiates already.”

  I sighed. “It’s just hard to see the value in that. I mean, you know the dangers of the dark forces even better than I do. I need to learn about them.” “I know.” Hunter’s voice was gentle. “But you have to look at the big picture. The sooner you can be initiated as a blood witch, the better. Once you’re in total control of your powers, Morgan, you’ll be a great asset.”

  I rolled my eyes. Sometimes Hunter had a real gift for making things sound unromantic. “All right,” I said. “I’ll figure out a way to do both.” We said our good-byes, and I stood up to place

  the phone in its cradle. When I turned around, I nearly jumped a foot in the air. “God, Mary K.,”

  I said, placing my palm on my chest. “You scared me.” She stood in the doorway in a white nightgown. Beneath the fluorescent kitchen lights, she looked pale and strange.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked quickly.

  “Alisa was right,” she said in a low voice. I swallowed hard, mentally running through the conversation I’d just had with Hunter. How much of it had she overheard? “What are you talking about?” I stalled. “Youknowwhat I’m talking about.” Mary K.’s whisper had the intensity of a scream. “My God, Morgan—don’t try to cover this up withlies.” I jammed my hands into the soft pockets of my flannel robe. “Look, Mary K., I don’t know what you heard—”

  “I want you to leave the coven.” The words hung there, ugly and irrefutable, as Mary K. folded her arms across her chest.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but—” “Morgan, don’t you get it?” Mary K. interrupted. “This isn’t just about you. What about Mom and Dad? They don’t have any idea what’s really going on! How do you think they’ll feel if anything happens to you?” Her voice wavered, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How do you thinkI’llfeel if something happens . . . and I never even warned them?” I stood there wordlessly for a long time. I understood what she was saying . . . but what could I do about it? I couldn’t leave the coven now. I had chos
en Wicca, and it had chosen me. And even though I wanted to comfort Mary K., I knew I couldn’t lie to her. In the end, I just said, “I’m sorry.”

  Mary K. was still standing in the kitchen when I went up to my room. I lay in my bed, listening for her footsteps, on the stairs for a long, long time. She still hadn’t come upstairs by the time I finally fell asleep.

  Danger

  “Morgan!” I knew the voice was Bree’s, but I couldn’t reply or even turn my head because I was gripping a paper cup of tea in my teeth as my cold fingers fumbled to lock the door of my car. Plumes of steam rose from the hot liquid and combined with my breath, dissipating quickly. “Here,” Bree said as she reached for the paper cup. I released it gratefully. “Thanks.”

  “Got a minute?” Bree asked.

  “Sure,” I said, taking the tea back from her. “What’s up?” “Robbie and I broke up.”

  I choked on the sip of tea I’d just taken. “What?” I looked at Bree more closely. Her face was ashen, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She wasn’t kidding. Bree glanced at my car. “Can we—?”

  “Of course.” I put my tea on the roof of the car and unlocked the door. A quick glance at my watch told me that we had ten minutes until the first bell. “What do you mean, you broke up? What happened?” I asked when we were seated inside the car. “Just what I said. Robbie and I talked last night.” Bree gave a small half shrug, lifting only one shoulder. “He said he needed space.”

  I waited a moment. “And—?” I prompted.

  “That’s it.” Bree gazed straight ahead. The parking lot was filling up as teachers and students hurried to class.“Bree,” I said, “that doesn’t necessarily mean that Robbie wants to break up.” I didn’tthinkit did,

  anyway. If it did, I was going to have to have a long talk with Robbie. Bree flashed me an oh-grow-up glance. “Spare me. I know what it means.” Raking her fingers through her hair, she added, “Not that it really matters, anyway. I mean, the relationship was getting a little old. I’ve been thinking about dating other people.” “Bree,” I said gently, “it’s me. Don’t.” She turned toward me, and her facade broke. Her eyes welled up, tears ran down her cheeks, and she looked like the same Bree whose heart was broken by Todd Hall in the seventh grade. “I know. I just—I just needed to say something bitchy.” I opened my mouth. But just then the first-period bell sounded, far away, and Bree opened the car door and stepped out.

  “Bree,” I called after her, “talk to Robbie!” But she’d already slammed the door and was striding toward the school. I didn’t know whether she’d heard me, and I wasn’t even sure that it mattered. “I should be home by six,” I said into a pay phone in the lobby of the public library later that day.

  “Great,” my mom said at the other end of the line. “I was thinking for family night we could play some board games and make hot fudge sundaes.” Even the faint crackle of static on the line couldn’t disguise my mom’s excitement. I got the feeling that she was trying to make peace after our argument the night before. “Sounds great, Mom,” I said, suddenly struck with a pang of guilt. I’d told my mom that I was at the library to study history and science—but I hadn’t mentioned it was witch history and magickal botany with Erin. And here she was, planning fun activities for the whole family. I was a terrible daughter. “See you at six.”

  I hung up, feeling lousy.

  “Everything all right?” Erin asked as I plopped down across from her. I laced my fingers together and rested my chin on them. “Just parental stuff.” Erin peered at me. As usual with her, I felt like I needed to explain myself. “It’s just—they’re Catholics. They don’t approve of witchcraft. And they’re threatening to send me to Catholic school.”

  Erin nodded gravely. “I wonder what your mother would think of all this.” For a moment I was confused—hadn’t we just been talking about my mother? Then I realized that Erin was talking about Maeve, my birth mother. My heart suddenly skipped a beat. I had never known my birth mother. She was from Ireland and had come to America with her lover, Angus, only after their entire coven was decimated by the dark wave. Coming to America hadn’t saved her, though. Ciaran—her other, secret lover—caught up with her and killed her while I was still a baby.

  “Did you know her?” I asked Erin. My throat was suddenly dry. “I met her once, briefly, when she was about fifteen and I was twenty-one,” Erin said. “My dearest friend, Mary, married a Belwicket man.” Her eyes clouded. Belwicket was the name of Maeve’s coven. “Your friend— did she—” “Gone,” Erin said. “Like everyone else.” We sat together in silence for a moment. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, growing up in a house without magick,” she said. Her eyebrows were raised, and her face held a question. “It wasn’t a big deal,” I admitted. “I never knew anything else.” I paused. The next part was harder to talk about. “Until I met Cal.” I looked at Erin, unsure how much of the story she

  already knew.

  Erin nodded. “Sgàth,” she said, using Cal’s witch name. The word sounded like a low susurration, the voice of the wind in the trees. She knew who he was. Of course.

  “Yes. He taught me about Wicca, and I started learning more on my own. I discovered that I had powers. And then I learned the truth. That my parents weren’t my birth parents . . . and that I was Woodbane.”

  “Morgan,” Erin said, leaning toward me. “You haven’t had an easy time of it. But that just means you have to be willing to work very hard—harder than most others have to. Are you willing to do that?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” I said.

  “Good.” Erin held up a small slip of paper. “I’ve checked the computer. The library has a number of fascinating books on witch history. We can start there.” She handed the paper to me. On it was a list of five books and their call numbers. “I’ll be right back,” I said. As I headed over to the nonfiction section of the library, I passed a familiar auburn head bent over a notebook at a nearby table. Mary K. She had gotten a ride with Susan Wallace both before and after school—clearly avoiding me again. Alisa sat across from her, murmuring in a low voice. Whispering in my sister’s ear about my evil powers, no doubt. A voice in my mind urged me to go and find the books. I knew it was the smart thing to do, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. There was something about the way Alisa looked, sitting there—I wanted to get her away from Mary K. Things were tense enough with my family. I didn’t want Alisa getting into the middle of it. I crossed the room in a few quick strides and stood next to my sister. “Hey, you guys,” I whispered, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Mary K. looked up with a start and placed her hand casually over what she’d been writing. Alisa practically turned green.

  “Uh, hi, Morgan,” Mary K. said. There was a thin edge in her voice. Was it anger, or fear? I couldn’t read her expression.

  “What are you guys working on?” I asked. “Oh,” Mary K. said, glancing down at her paper. “Just a writing assignment.” She shifted in her seat and glanced over my shoulder. “What are you doing here?” I lifted my eyebrows. “I’m studying.” I tried to get a better look at Mary K.’s notes. There seemed to be a lot of them. “You guys seem to be working pretty hard on this thing,” I pressed, trying to make conversation.

  Mary K. looked really uncomfortable. I turned to Alisa, who was as still as a stone. “Is it a project for class?” I asked. Alisa didn’t respond. She stared down at the library table as if it were the most fascinating piece of wood in the universe. I couldn’t imagine what they’d be hiding from me. “What’s going on?” I asked finally. Mary K. stared helplessly at Alisa.

  “Mary K. is helping me write a letter,” Alisa said without looking up from the table. Then she raised her head and looked me in the eye. “It’s to the town newspaper, and it’s about the dangerous witchcraft going on around here.” She’s lying. That was my first thought: She’s lying—she’d never do that. And Mary K. would never help her. I turned to my sister. “Is this true?” I asked her. Mary K. didn’t
reply. "It was my idea,” Alisa said, still looking at me with that defiant gaze. "Mary K.?” My voice was a whisper. Mary K. wouldn’t look at me. “It was my idea,” Alisa repeated.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Have I done something to you?” I asked her.

  Alisa looked startled. “What?”

  “Have I made you mad or something? Or has someone in Kithic done something wrong?” I struggled to hold my anger in check. Why was she doing this? What did she have to gain? “Because you seem to have turned against us.” “That—that’s not true,” Alisa insisted feebly. “Isn’t it?” I demanded. “Then what’s the point of this letter?” Alisa’s mouth opened and closed. “It’s just—it’s just—” She groped for words. Finally she shook her head. “Look, forget it. Forget the letter. I’m not sending it.” “That doesn’t answer my question,” I pressed. "Morgan,” Mary K. said, “she just said that she isn’t sending the letter. Isn’t that enough?” “I don’t know,” I said. I really didn’t. I wanted to understand what was going on inside Alisa’s head—but clearly she didn’t want to let me in. I looked at Mary K. "I guess I’ll see you later.” She gave a quick nod and looked down at her paper again. I didn’t say anything to Alisa, just turned and walked toward the stacks, fuming. Everything was skidding out of control lately—school, my family life, even my magick. Just put it out of your mind, I told myself. You can always talk to Mary K. later. I checked the call numbers of the books Erin had listed and realized they were on one of the top shelves. Grabbing a library ladder, I stepped up to the top rung and began hunting for the first title. “Legacies of the Great Clans,”I murmured to myself.“Legacies of—” My ladder tipped slightly,

  and I instinctively reached out and grabbed one of the shelves to keep myself from falling. It must be uneven, I thought as I wiggled myself gingerly to feel if the legs were stable. The ladder didn’t move.

  I didn’t have time to think about that, though, because in a moment a book flew off the shelf, hurling itself against the books on the shelf across from it. Where have I seen that before? I wondered dimly as the entire bookcase began to rattle and shake. It gave a heavy groaning creak, and I looked back at it just in time to see it tip toward me. I didn’t even have time to let out a cry—I jumped from the ladder as the bookcase toppled. With a fierce crash, it slammed into the shelf across from it, and books slid off the shelves and thudded to the floor. I landed on the floor in a heap, under the tilted shelf, and felt a sharp pain in my shoulder. Around me there were shouts, then scuffling noises as people ran toward me. “Are you okay?” The gangly librarian leaned over and helped me to my feet. She stared at the bookcase and the mess of books on the floor. “You could have been hurt!” Staring at the wreckage, I started to shake. It was true. The bookshelf was massive and loaded with heavy volumes. If it had fallen completely, it could have landed on me. And if it had toppled the shelf across from it, it could have landed on someone else. I shuddered. A small group of people had gathered nearby, and Erin pushed her way through them to come over to me. “What happened?” Her tone was sharp, her forehead creased with worry. I cast a sideways glance at the librarian, who was inspecting the shelf gingerly. “It was just like the other day at Hunter’s,” I whispered. “I saw a book fly off the shelf before the whole thing toppled.” Now I was shaking for real. Ciaran, I thought. It had to be him. Who else would—or could—do this? My birth father really was after me. Remembering what he had done to my mother, to her whole coven, I had to fight for breath. If Ciaran really was after me, how could I ever escape him?