Book Seven
Sweep
Cate Tiernan
THE CALLING
All quoted materials in this work were created by the author. Any resemblance to existing works is accidental. SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, This edition published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., Copyright © 2001 by 17th Street Productions, an Alloy company All rights reserved
Produced by 17th Street Productions,
an Alloy company
151 West 26th Street
New York, NY 17th Street Productions and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Alloy, Inc.
ISBN: 1-4362-1681- Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content. Contents
Prologue
1Prophecies
2Searching
3Witch Dance
4Glamor
5Gifts of the Mage
6Healing
7The Watch
8Spy
9Connections
10Signs
11Fated
12Ciaran
13Truth
14Tainted
15Broken
Prologue
A wolf, silver-tipped fur, ivory teeth glinting in the candlelight, padding across a dark, polished marble floor to a stone table. The room huge, black candles flickering in wall sconces. Leaves and vines in ornate plaster molding. A cougar, muscles rippling beneath a tawny pelt, bounds toward the table, golden eyes glittering. Black drapes covering tall, narrow windows. A great
horned owl, its wings and talons outstretched, hovering over the stone table. The air rank with
the smells of the animals. A viper coiled on the table, fangs exposed. An eagle, an enormous bear. A jaguar, tail lashing. The air crackling with dark power. An elaborate silver candlestick with black candles burning on top of an ebony cabinet. A hawk circling. An athame set with a single bloodred ruby. A jackal, a weasel, both greedy with hunger. The wolf ravenous. All closing on the great round stone table where a wolf cub lies bound, its eyes wide with terror, its small body trembling. One by one the candles gutter out. The darkness becomes thicker, complete. And the wolf cub howls.
I bolted upright, my heart hammering. I could still hear the echo of the cub’s agonized scream, and the darkness around me…was only the darkness of my bedroom in the middle of the night. I was in my own room, in my own bed, yet the dream was still with me, vivid and terrifying. Hunter, I need you! Without thinking I sent a witch message to my boyfriend, Hunter Niall. I felt his instant response: On my way.
I glanced at my alarm clock. It was just past threeA.M. I padded downstairs in my flannel pajamas to wait for Hunter.
It took him only ten minutes to arrive, but it felt more like ten hours as I paced the living room nervously. The nightmare wasn’t even close to fading. It still seemed present, as if all I had to do was close my eyes and I’d be right back inside it. I looked out the window as I felt Hunter approach, crunching across the crust of old snow on our lawn. His pale blond hair stuck up in spikes around his head, and my mage-sight showed me the traces of pink the cold wind had whipped into his pale, chiseled face. “What happened?” he asked without preamble as I opened the front door. “I had a dream.” I pulled him inside, opened his coat, and buried my face against his sweater-covered chest.
He stroked my hair back from my forehead. “Tell me.” I told him, standing within the circle of his arms, speaking in a whisper so as not to wake my family. As I spoke, the images from the dream seemed to hover in the air around me, the wolf slavering, the owl’s yellow eyes searching, searching. I wanted to hide from those yellow eyes, wanted to stop them from hunting me out. Stop. It’s not real, I told myself.
“I don’t know why it scared me so much,” I finished lamely. “It was just a dream. And I wasn’t even in it.”
But Hunter didn’t say the comforting things people usually say. Instead he was silent a moment,
tapping his fingers gently on my shoulder. At last he said, “I think I should report it to the council.”
My heart contracted. “The council? You think it’s that serious?” He shook his head, his green eyes somber. “I don’t know. I’m not experienced in interpreting dreams. But there are things in it that worry me—a lot.” I swallowed. “Oh,” I said in a small voice. “Morgan?” I heard my dad’s sleepy voice coming from the top of the stairs. “Are you down there? What are you doing up at this hour?” I turned quickly. “Just getting something to drink,” I called. “Go back to sleep, Dad.” “You too,” he mumbled.
Hunter and I looked at each other.
“I’ll call you,” he whispered.
I watched him disappear back into the darkness. Then I went back up to my room and lay there, sleepless and full of dread, waiting for the dawn to come. Prophecies
March 2, I dreamt of Ireland again. As always, the dream left me with a longing that makes no sense. It’s just an image, deceptively simple, innocent really: a small child’s dress of cream linen, blowing on a line against an open blue sky. Behind it the grass slopes up to the base of Slieve Corrofin, with the great rock at the peak in the shape of a lizard’s head. I remember the locals calling it the Ballynigel dragon, though I reckon that was more for the tourists than anything else. So why does Ballynigel still haunt my dreams? And what do I make of the fact that the dream returns when I am eighteen, two nights before I’m to marry Grania? If, as we are taught, everything has meaning, then what does this mean? Am I being warned away from the marriage? No, that seems impossible. I’ve been dreaming of that dress since I was eight. Besides, Grania is three months pregnant with my child. And she’s a good match. Her family is one of the wealthiest in Liathach, our coven. More to the point, her mother is the high priestess of Liathach and has no other children, and Grania has no ambition to lead the coven herself.
She’s happy to let me take that role. I’ve always known that one day Liathach would be mine to
lead. Being Greer MacMuredach’s son-in-law will make the passing of power that much easier. Together Grania and I will raise a dynasty full of true Woodbane magick. —Neimhidh
At eight-thirty the sky still held the paleness of early morning as I drove south on the New York State Thruway. There were almost no other cars on the road, and the world seemed still and hushed in the chill January air. In the backseat of Das Boot, my enormous ’71 Plymouth Valiant, Bree Warren, Robbie Gurevitch, Raven Meltzer, and Hunter’s cousin, Sky Eventide, were crammed together. All were sleeping—Raven half collapsed against Sky, Bree snuggling with Robbie. The only other person awake was Hunter, who sat in the passenger seat beside me. I glanced at him, saw his chiseled profile intent as he studied a map. Sometimes I wondered if Hunter ever lived a moment without that focused intensity.
Did he even sleep intensely? Maybe I would find out over the coming weekend. The six of us were about to spend four nights in New York City. I’d never spent that much time with Hunter, and something deep inside me thrummed with pleasure at his being so close to me. Things were still new between us, but I knew without question that I loved him. Most of the time I felt pretty certain that he loved me, too, although sometimes I got insecure about that. I had told him how I felt weeks ago, but he had never said it back to me. Who knew—maybe he just didn’t feel it was necessary. I hadn’t had the nerve to ask him.
“Morgan, you’ll need to take the Palisades Parkway to the George Washington Bridge, then get the Harlem River Drive to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt motorway,” he said, sounding very British.
“We call themhighways here,” I said, unable to resist ribbing him. “Thehighway , then. It will take us straight down the east side of the city.” “I know.” I’d never driven to New York City before, but I’d gone with my family plenty of times. From Widow’s Vale, about two hours north, it was a pretty direct route. “How fast are you going?”
I glanced at the speedometer. “Seventy-five.” He frowned. I smiled. Responsible Hunter. At nineteen, he was the youngest member of the International Council of Witches, a Seeker, charged with ferreting out witches who used their power inappropriately and administering punishment. It was a serious job. Too serious, I sometimes felt. Since I’d met Hunter, I’d seen more of Wicca’s dark side than I cared to. About two months earlier I’d learned that I was in fact not the biological child of the people I’d always thought of as my parents. Rather, I was adopted and a blood witch, the descendant of one of the Seven Great Clans of Wicca. What’s more, I was heir to an incredible legacy of power.
Magick had brought me searing grief. It had made me question absolutely everything I’d ever
believed to be true. But magick was also the most amazing gift: an opening of the senses, a surfacing of ancestral memories, an exhilarating connection to the earth, and a strength I’d never imagined possible. And it had brought Hunter into my life. Hunter, who I loved more than I’d thought possible.
“You’re almost up to eighty,” Hunter said, sounding disapproving. I slowed down to sixty-five. “There’s no one else on the road,” I pointed out. “Except perhaps a police officer,” he warned. I felt his green eyes on me, and when I glanced at him, he smiled. “Pity we don’t travel by broomstick anymore,” he said. “Did we ever?” I asked, honestly curious. “It sounds like fun.” Hunter shrugged. “Really? I suspect it would be awfully uncomfortable—hard seat, no heat or air-conditioning, bugs constantly flying into your mouth….” I glanced at him again and saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. I felt a rush of delight that made me break into a goofy grin. “I guess I’ll stick to driving for now.” We rode in silence for a while. The haze of thin clouds in the sky was starting to burn off, the sky settling into the pale, crystalline blue so typical of winter skies. There were a few more cars on the road now.
Hunter was the reason we were all going to New York City. Hunter, my dream, and the ancient boiler in Widow’s Vale High, which had broken down the Wednesday before Martin Luther King Jr. Day, miraculously extending a three-day weekend to five days. As it turned out, the council had taken my dream very seriously. They considered it a prophetic vision and had ordered Hunter to investigate. “They think the animals in your dream were actually members of a Woodbane coven called Amyranth,” Hunter had told me when he’d gotten the council’s directive.
“Amyranth?” I frowned. Where had I heard that name before? Of the Seven Great Clans, the Woodbanes were known for their tendency to covet and abuse power. But there were also Woodbane covens, like Belwicket, the one my birth parents had belonged to, that had forsworn evil.
“Amyranth is not one of the good ones,” Hunter told me. “It’s one of the worst. It’s the only coven believed to practice the forbidden magick of shape-shifting. Actually, another coven, Turneval, also used to shape-shift. But Turneval was disbanded in the early seventies, after their core members were stripped of their magick by the council. Amyranth has avoided the same fate by operating in deep secrecy. Members usually maintain membership in another coven;
Amyranth is their secret coven.” He gave me a sideways look. “Selene Belltower was a member
of Amyranth.”
“Oh.”That’s where I’d heard the name Amyranth before. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought of Selene. “So we’re talking very scary.” Hunter had been sent to Widow’s Vale last fall to ferret out a group of Woodbane witches who were using dark magick to destroy their opponents and increase their own power. Their local leader had been Selene Belltower, the mother of Cal Blaire, Hunter’s half brother and my first love. Though I was Woodbane myself, Selene had wanted to drain me of my power, and she’d used Cal to get to me. When that plan had failed, Selene had kidnapped my younger sister, Mary K., forcing Hunter and me into a horrible showdown with her, just before Christmas. She’d nearly killed Hunter and me both, and I worried that Mary K. might still be suffering some subtle bad effects from having been her captive. Cal had stepped in front of me and taken the bolt of dark energy she’d aimed at me. Now Cal was dead, killed by his own mother. Although he’d used and betrayed me, in the end he’d given his life for me. I was still coming to terms with that: both with the fact that the beautiful boy I’d loved so much was gone and that he was gone because of me. Selene had also died that night—and though I certainly hadn’t meant to kill her, I was haunted by the fear that my magick had somehow contributed to her death. I’d never seen death up close. It was so final and empty and awful. Seeing Cal and Selene alive one minute, dead the next had changed something inside me. For all of Selene’s and Cal’s formidable powers, they were as mortal as anyone else. Ever since that night I’d looked at everyone I knew and loved with a new awareness. We were all so fragile, all capable of being so easily extinguished. I couldn’t help thinking of that again as I drove on this beautiful morning. “Are you all right?” Hunter asked softly. “If you grip that wheel any more tightly, you’re going to wrench it off the steering column.”
“I’m fine.” I forced my hands to relax.
“Are you thinking about Selene and Cal?” Hunter guessed. He was very sensitive to my emotions. No one had ever read me with such precision. Sometimes it made feel vulnerable and exposed. Sometimes it was weirdly comforting. At that moment it was a little of both. I nodded as we whizzed past an exit. No love had been lost between Hunter and Cal. They’d never known each other except as enemies. But Hunter knew I’d loved Cal and was doing his best to be respectful of that. More than anyone, he understood how much coming into my powers had cost me.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “Can we go over the details of this vision one more time? I’m still not clear on what it is we’re supposed to do.” “We’renot supposed to do anything,” Hunter said. “You’re staying out of this. I don’t want you
taking any risks, Morgan.”
I felt a prickle of annoyance. We’d had this argument several times in the two days since the council had contacted Hunter. Because I was the one who’d had the dream, the council had asked that I accompany Hunter, just in case he needed to consult with me. I, of course, wanted to go. It was my dream, after all. Besides, I loved the idea of spending time in the city with Hunter. Hunter hadn’t been so keen on the idea, though. “It’s too dangerous,” he’d told me flatly. “For you of all people to go walking into a nest of Woodbanes…” He explained that the council believed Selene had been acting on behalf of Amyranth; it was possible I still was a target. I couldn’t pretend that prospect didn’t frighten me. But Selene was dead now, nothing bad had happened to me in the weeks since her death, and I was starting to feel safer. Safe enough that my desire to go with Hunter outweighed my fear. “The council thinks I should go,” I’d argued. “The council are a bunch of—” He broke off, pressing his lips together in irritation. My eyes widened. Was he
really about to bad-mouth the International Council of Witches? “They don’t always consider the risk to individuals,” he said after a minute. “They’re not out here, doing the legwork. Anyway, you can’t go,” he went on. “You’ve got school. Your parents aren’t going to let you take two days off to go down to the city just because a bunch of witches in London think you should.” He was right about that, I had to admit. But then the school boiler had broken down, and Bree had suggested that we combine Hunter’s mission with a road trip to her dad’s New York City apartment. After a long discussion my parents had said I could go, and after that even Hunter couldn’t come up with any more good reasons for me not to. I smiled, thinking about it. It must have been fate. By late Wednesday night our road trip had expanded to include six members of Kithic, our coven. Sky was coming along because she and Hunter, who were cousins, always looked out for each other. Raven wanted to be with Sky, and Robbie had come to be with Bree. Traffic thickened as we headed down the Palisades Parkway toward the George Washington Bridge. I slowed. “So the animals in my dream were actually Amyranth witches in their animal forms—have I got that right?”
“Right,” Hunter confirmed. “We think so. We know they use animal masks in some of their darker rites. It’s rarer for a witch to actually be able to take on animal form, but they are capable of that as well. The council thinks that the wolf cub on the table must represent the child of the witch who appeared as the wolf.”
My mouth fell open. “But—I mean, it looked like the cub was about to be sacrificed. Are you saying a mother—or father—is out to kill their own child?”
Hunter nodded. “That’s the theory,” he said quietly. “The most likely scenario is that the
victim’s power is going to be drained. Which usually means death.” “What else?” I asked after a moment, trying to match his calm. “Well, now we get to what the council doesn’t know,” Hunter said. “First of all, we aren’t sure which cell of Amyranth is planning this event.” “How many cells are there?”
Hunter blew out a long breath. “Four that we know of. One in San Francisco—that was Selene’s group—one near Glasgow in Scotland, one in northern France, and one in New York City. We’ve managed to get spies into the other three cells, but unfortunately, the one in New York is the one that the council knows the least about. Basically, all we know is that it exists. We don’t know the identity of any of its members, can’t even connect it to any specific incidents of dark magick. It’s the most shadowy of all the branches.” I tried to make sense of all of this. “So the council doesn’t know who the wolf really is.” “Or who the cub is,” Hunter said. “We believe that he or she is a young witch in terrible danger. But we have no idea who this witch is or why he or she has been chosen as a victim.” “And your job?” I asked.