Gulping, Moira looked away, down at her own reflection. It too had separated into two images. One image was a fire-in the shape of a face. The fire was smoldering, red-hot coals but seemed to offer warmth and comfort rather than destruction. Tiny flames licked at the edges, like strands of hair being blown in the wind. The other image was a person, just as lan's had been. At first Moira thought it was her, but then she realized the person was a man. She frowned, trying to see closer.
Splash! Moira jumped back as a small stone dropped into the water, destroying the reflections. Startled, she looked up at Ian and wiped a few drops of water off her face. "What did you do? There was something ... something else there."
Ian got to his knees, looking unhappy. "I thought I'd seen enough."
Moira also scrambled up, her limbs feeling stiff and chilled through. "Are you all right?" She took his arm and looked into his face, but his expression was blank and he wouldn't meet her gaze.
"Yeah. It was just cold there on the rock." Edging past her gently, Ian picked up his collected bags, then brushed off his clothes.
He's lying. Did he see what I saw?
"Come on, then," Ian said, trying to sound natural. He forced a smile and held out his hand to help her down from the rock. She took it, jumping down, and followed Ian as he picked their way back out of the woods. The closer they got to the edge, the cooler and fresher it seemed, and Moira could smell rain and hear it pelting the tops of the trees.
"Brilliant," Ian said, looking out at the rain and the darkness. He turned to her. "I'm sorry, Moira. We're going to get soaked."
Moira? Where are you? Moira heard her mother's voice inside her head.
She sent back, I'm here, with Ian, at the brook. I'm on my way home.
"It's all right," she said to Ian. "I've gotten soaked before. But are you all right? Why did you break up the reflection?" He paused, not looking at her, absentmindedly flapping the bags against his leg. "I don't know," he said finally. "It just-I wanted to get out of there."
Moira waited, holding his arm and looking at his face, his skin flecked with raindrops. "You can tell me," she said gently. "You can trust me."
His startled gaze met hers, his dark blue eyes seeming to search her face. A sad-looking smile crossed his face, followed by a look of despair that lasted only an instant. Moira wasn't sure if she'd really seen it. Stepping closer, Ian put a hand under Moira's chin. His skin was damp and cool. "Thank you," he said quietly, and then he kissed her, there at the edge of the woods in the rain.
Moira closed her eyes and stepped closer, slanting her head to deepen the kiss. It was so good and felt so right. Her worries and suspicions fell away as they put their arms around each other and held on tightly. But she knew there was something beneath lan's skin, something he was worried about or afraid of. Her instincts still told her that he himself wasn't bad, or evil, as her mother would say. I can help him, she thought dizzily as they broke away from their kiss and stared at each other. Whatever it is that's upsetting him, it'll be all right.
6
Morgan
Morgan finished writing the recipe for the liver strengthener in her best handwriting. Unfortunately, her handwriting hadn't really improved over the years.
Right after Moira had left to meet Ian, Fillipa Gregg had dropped by for a quick consultation. Morgan had been glad for the distraction and, after doing some hands-on healing work, had concocted the liver cleanser for her. Tonight she needed to write up a strengthening spell and prepare a vial of flower essences for Fillipa to put in her tea for a month.
The sun was going down, but Morgan didn't need to think about dinner for an hour. It was taking all her self-control not to scry for Moira to make sure she was all right. Elise's Brook! In the middle of nowhere with Ian Delaney. Two weeks ago Morgan's life had been sad, unbalanced, but not threatening. Now danger threatened; it was almost as if she and the coven were under siege. Morgan knew she had to keep her guard up, watch her back, the way she had back in Widow's Vale so many years ago. She was keeping the animals inside more and locking all the doors and windows. Not that physical barriers would do any good if serious magick was being worked against her.
Do something. Idle hands are the devil's workshop.
Morgan smiled as she remembered her adoptive mother's words. Of course, Wiccans didn't believe in the devil, or Satan, in any form. But it wouldn't hurt to keep busy. Keeping busy helped her think. And maybe she could gather some ingredients for more, stronger ward-evil spells.
On one wall of Morgan's workroom were floor-to-ceiling shelves. All of her magickal supplies were there, from an assortment of crystals and gems to oil essences, dried flowers, powdered barks, spelled candles and runes, and incense. Maeve's four silver cups were there, polished and shiny from use. The Riordan athame rested in the velvet-lined box that Morgan had bought for it years ago. Maeve's green silk robe was folded carefully and wrapped in tissue paper.
It had been hard talking to Moira this afternoon about Cal. Maybe not as hard as she'd feared, but still difficult to talk about. And as bad as her past with Cal was, it was going to be much, much harder to tell Moira about Ciaran or Hunter. Colm had known about Ciaran and some of her history with Hunter. Telling Moira about her past-her story-was much more daunting, more painful. Morgan had thought it would get easier with time. That at some point she would know when Moira was ready to hear about her past. But waiting hadn't made facing the truth any easier. Morgan remembered what it had felt like, learning that she was the illegitimate daughter of Ciaran MacEwan. It had shaken her to the core, made her question herself like nothing else ever had. If she was the daughter of an incredibly evil witch, did that make her own darkness inevitable? She had known even then that it was going to be a constant struggle to stay on the side of goodness.
It had been, but not only because she was Ciaran's daughter. Every single person, every day, had to choose goodness over and over again. Every person, every day, could take one of two paths. It was up to that person to choose well. Choosing to work with bright magick wasn't a choice one made at the beginning of her career and then just forgot about. The temptation was constant. It was a choice that must be made continuously, despite need or anger or desire. There had been times when Morgan had known she could truly help someone, truly make a difference in someone's life, but it would have meant working the wrong kind of magick. And there had been times when Morgan could see how her own power would be increased substantially if she worked a certain spell or created certain rituals. If she were that much stronger, she could do that much more good. She always used her powers for good. She could protect her family that much more. She herself could be that much safer. But to get that power, she would have to pay the price of working dark magick, even if it were only for a short amount of time. And that price was too high. The memory of Daniel Niall, collapsed and broken after working with a bith dearc-a portal to the dead-flashed through Morgan's mind.
She had been tempted by dark magick. She couldn't hold her head high and say that she had never even considered it, that following the Wiccan Rede and minding the threefold law had come easily. Morgan was only too aware of the humbling effect of temptation, of the realization that she had such a desire in her, to be brought to the point of having to fight it.
Was that because she was human or because she was Ciaran's daughter? How easily had Ciaran slipped into darkness all those years ago?
There was more of Ciaran in Morgan than she ever wanted anyone to know. The only way to overcome that side of her was to look hard at it and face it head-on. The moment she pretended she was better than Ciaran, more immune to temptation than he was, that was when she would fall.
Morgan had to stop for a moment. Ciaran. She rested her head in one hand and rubbed her forehead. She took a sip of juice.
He had died four years after Morgan had put a binding spell on him and called Hunter to strip him of his powers. Thinking back on that grotesque scene still made Morgan's stomach turn. It was ne
ver clean or easy to strip a witch of his or her powers. Fifteen years ago it had been more com-mon-now the New Charter stressed rehabilitation, reteaching, limited bindings. But to strip a witch of Ciaran's strength of his powers against his will-it was like watching a human being be turned inside out. Ciaran had never recovered from the trauma-not many witches did. For a blood witch to live without powers, without the blessing of that extra connection to the world, to oneself-most witches preferred death. Some members of the New Charter were only now trying to develop rituals and spells that could possibly restore at least some limited magick to a witch who had been stripped.
As for Ciaran-to say that he had never recovered was a gross understatement After he had been tried and sentenced and sent to Borach Mean, a sort of rest home in southern Ireland for witches without powers, he had simply ceased to be.
Morgan had gone to visit Ciaran only once, about eight months after he'd arrived at Borach Mean. The memory made her cringe, and she almost dropped the small bottle of rosewater she was holding. She'd had so many torn and confused feelings about what she'd done, about Ciaran himself. She recognized herself in him; she was undeniably drawn to him, her handsome, powerful father. He'd been charming and complimentary-when he'd wanted something. He'd loved her and been proud of her, had seen more potential in her than in any of his other children. But to truly earn his total love, Morgan would have had to step out of light and into darkness forever.
At Borach Mean the witch in charge had led Morgan to Ciaran, in an enclosed courtyard. The pale peach-colored stucco walls had sheltered plants of all kinds, each chosen for its scent or beauty. Herbs and roses all grew lushly, basking in the sun, releasing their scents to the warm air. They had all been spelled to be without power, of no use in any kind of spell. Just in case.
Her feet quiet on the dusty paving stones, Morgan had walked up to him, and he'd jumped: one sad effect of witches losing powers was that they could no longer sense people approaching them, and they ended up being startled frequently. It had taken him several moments to recognize her. She'd been shocked and sickened by his appearance. He'd lost an incredible amount of weight and looked sunken and hollow, even frail. His hair was almost completely white, where before it had been a rich, dark brown with just a few silver threads. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. Their hazel color, once so like Morgan's, had faded to a pale, mottled shade that seemed strangely lit from within.
"You." Morgan had felt rather than heard the word, his uncomprehending stare, the odd glitter of his almost colorless eyes.
"I'm sorry," Morgan had managed to choke out. Those pathetically inadequate words were supposed to cover so much-sorry you were so evil. Sorry you were my dad. Sorry you killed my mother. Sorry I helped bring you to this. Sorry that someone who could have been beautiful and strong and wise instead chose to be corrupt and destructive. And despite everything, sorry we couldn't have been the father and daughter that each of us would have wanted.
In the next moment Ciaran had lunged off his bench, fingers clenched like talons, and Morgan, startled, had taken a big step back. He had started spitting hateful words at her, words of revenge, accusation: "Traitor! Betrayer! Dog-witch! Nemesis! Foul, faithless daughter!" He had tried to throw spells at her, spells that, had he had his powers, would have flayed the flesh from her bones. As it was, his attempt to create magick only made him crumple in pain, retching, his fingers clawing at the light red dust on the ground.
"Ciaran, stop," Morgan had cried, raw pain squeezing her heart. And still he had spewed awful words at her. She had burst into tears, shaken by the horror of it all, and then, unbearably, Ciaran had started crying, too, as an attendant ran up. One witch had led Morgan inside, while two others had picked Ciaran up and taken him back to his room. The last thing Morgan had heard was his voice, a shattered, hollow croak, choking out her name.
Morgan could still smell the heated dust of Borach Mean, still feel the warm wind in her hair. Not long after that, she had moved to Ireland for good. Four years later, when she heard that Ciaran had died, she had gone to his funeral.
Moving the step stool, she continued to search for the ingredients she needed.
Ciaran's funeral had been in Scotland, where his wife, Grania, had lived with their three children: Kyle, lona, and Killian. Her half siblings. Grania had finally divorced Ciaran after he'd been stripped. Morgan had heard about it from Killian, the only one of her half siblings she had any relationship with. He hadn't asked her to come, had advised against it, in fact, but she'd told him that she needed to and that he didn't have to let on who she was when she was there.
So she'd shown up at the small and ancient burial ground that the MacEwan Woodbanes had used for centuries. She'd worn a scarf and dark glasses to hide her hair and eyes. Almost two hundred people had been there: dark witches, come to mourn their betrayed and fallen leader, and others, his enemies, come to make sure he was dead at last. It had been very odd. Killian had spotted her but made no sign of recognition. Morgan hadn't known anyone else there except for a few council members, like Eoife MacNabb. Eoife also gave no sign of recognition.
Yet Grania, Ciaran's ex-wife, the one he had betrayed to become Morgan's mother's lover, had suddenly spotted her across the crowd and let loose a spine-cracking banshee howl.
"You!" she had cried. "How dare you show your face here? You, his bastard daughter!" Her face had contorted in resentment. "You and he deserved each other! How I wish you could join him in his grave right now!"
Everyone had turned to look. Morgan had stared at Grania, not saying a word, just knowing what she could have said. Grania had once perhaps been pretty, but thirty years of frustration and anger had twisted her face, made it seem lumpy and asymmetrical. Her hair was a harsh blond that ill suited her red, windburned face and pale, gooseberry eyes. She and Ciaran had had a rocky relationship. But clearly, even after all Ciaran had done to her, she still felt something for him, something that made it impossible to bear the reminder Morgan provided of his affair with Maeve.
Next to Grania, Killian had worn a pained expression-he hadn't joined in his mother's accusations, but neither would he defend Morgan against her. Killian mostly just took care of Killian. But lona and Kyle-Ciaran's other children-had been another matter, lona resembled Grania in looks-she was pale, dumpy, and had none of Ciaran's handsomeness, charisma, or grace. She'd stared at Morgan with plain hatred, but then her expression had turned to something else, something sly and knowing, almost like satisfaction: a smug, triumphant look that Morgan didn't understand. Could lona have been glad that Ciaran was dead? He hadn't made her life easy, but she had professed to love him.
Then Kyle had surged toward her, hissing a spell. He looked more like Ciaran, but where Ciaran's features had been classical and chiseled, Kyle's were softer, more doughy. He had Ciaran's coloring, as Morgan did, and Killian.
His attack had been useless. Morgan had been initiated-she was far from an untrained teenager, unaware of her powers. Not only that, but she had already lost Hunter. Life had honed her, made her harder. Morgan, sitting there at her father's funeral, had been as hard and sharp and deadly as an athame. Kyle's power was undisciplined, unfocused, and Morgan had flicked his spells aside with a wave of her hand as if they were gnats.
This wasn't what she had come for. It gave her no pleasure to antagonize or hurt her father's other family. Sighing, Morgan had gathered her things and threaded her way through the crowd. She'd walked back toward the village and caught the next train out. Since then she'd heard about Kyle or lona only seldom, usually from Killian, whom she continued to see maybe once a year or so, whenever she was in his area on business. Killian had changed little, despite a surprisingly early marriage and, at last count, three children. He was still happy-go-lucky, held no grudges, and managed to skip through life like an autumn leaf, tossed here and there by the wind.
Killian had told her of the political marriages of both Kyle and lona, who had each chosen to ally themselves with
powerful Woodbane families, lona had taken her father's legacy seriously and had been studying intensively-though whether she could ever come close to filling Ciaran's shoes was unknown. Kyle had continued to soften, like an overripe cheese, and now it sounded as if he mostly played the role of country gentleman, managing extensive estates in western Scotland, supported by his wealthy wife.
Morgan sighed to herself. Okay, well, now she had managed to thoroughly depress herself. But at least she'd gathered everything she needed for the spell.
Back in the living room she lay down on the couch. It was dark outside now, and the rain had just started, Moira still wasn't back Morgan was tempted to scry for her daughter but instead sent a witch message to Moira, asking her where she was. Thankfully, Moira sent back that she was on her way home.
Rubbing her forehead again, Morgan lay in the shadowed room, trying to keep a lid on her anxiety. Moira was safe. She was coming home. And tomorrow Morgan and Keady would ask Christa, Katrina, and Will Fereston to join them in performing a spell to trace the black smoke from last night. Morgan was also considering taking the hex pouch and confronting Lilith with it, possibly making some ambiguous counterthreats. Maybe she could scare Lilith into leaving her alone.