Morgan could do nothing but stare. "With you in what way?"
Hunter turned her hand over and traced the carvings of her claddagh ring. "In every way. As my partner, the mother of my children. Every way there is. I need you. You're my life, wherever you are, whatever you're doing."
Morgan quit breathing.
"Look, the one constant in our lives is our love," he said. "It seems like we're squandering our most precious gift- having a soul mate. If we let that slip away, nothing else will make sense." Morgan gaped at him, a splinter of sunlight seeming to enter her heart. Oh, Goddess, please. Please.
He went on. "I can phase out the field work I'm doing for the New Charter. There's any number of things I can do based out of Cobh. We could live together, make a life together, wake up with each other more often than not with each other. I want to see you grow old, I want us to grow old together. I want to have a family with you. There can be cats involved, if you like."
Could this possibly be true? Could this really be happening? After her despair of the last two weeks the sudden, overwhelming joy Morgan felt seemed almost scary.
"I still have Dagda," was all that Morgan could think of to say. Her once-tiny gray kitten was now a hulking sixteen- pounder who had developed a distinct fondness for Irish mice. "But-can you do this? Do you really mean it?"
Hunter grinned. It was the most beautiful thing that Morgan had ever seen. He moved his chair till they were close, side by side. His arm went around her waist, and she leaned against his warmth, his comfort, his promise. The faded half life she had resigned herself to had just burst into brilliant colors. It was almost too much. It was everything.
"Do you want to be with me, Morgan?" he said softly. "You're my heart's love, my heart's ease. Will you join me in handfasting-will you be my wife?"
"Oh, yes. Yes," Morgan whispered, then rested her head against his shoulder.
Dawn. Dawn is the most magickal time of day, followed of course by sunset, Morgan thought dreamily. She stretched her feet toward Hunter's warmth and let sheer happiness, hopefulness, and contentment wash over her like a wave of comfort. From her bed Morgan could see a small rectangle of sky, pale gray, streaked with pink. It was the dawn of a whole new life, Morgan exulted. The life where she and Hunter would always be together. They would have a hand- fasting, she thought with a shiver of mixed awe and delight. They might have children. Goddess, Goddess, had anyone ever been so happy? Her eyes drifted closed, a smile still on her face.
"Sweet," Hunter whispered, kissing her ear. Morgan reluctantly opened her eyes, then frowned as she realized Hunter was out of bed and already dressed.
"What are you doing?" she demanded sleepily. "Come back here." Hunter laughed and kissed a line of warmth beneath her ear.
"My last New Charter meeting, over in Wexford," he explained. "I'm taking the eight-oh-five ferry. I'll do my meeting, tell them to get a replacement, and be back by dinnertime at the latest. We can go get some of that fried stuff you love, all right?"
"All right," Morgan said, stretching luxuriously.
She saw a familiar roguish gleam in his eyes as he watched her stretch, then curl up again under the covers. He looked at his watch, and she laughed. "You don't have time," she told him.
"Love you," he said, grinning, opening the door.
"Love you, too," Morgan replied. "Forever."
Morgan felt as if she'd closed her eyes for only a moment when she was awoken by a loud banging. Frowning, she looked at her watch. Eight-twenty. So Hunter had been gone only half an hour. What was all that noise? She sat up. The lash of rain made her look over at the window. It was pouring outside, thundering and lightning. So odd after the clear dawn.
Downstairs, people were shouting and running, and doors were banging. What could possibly be the matter? A fire? There was no alarm. Had the roof sprung a leak? That wouldn't cause this much commotion.
In a minute Morgan had pulled on her jeans and sweater and shoved her feet into her boots. She put her head out the doorway and sniffed. No smell of fire. She cast her senses, sending her consciousness out around her. She picked up only choppy, confused feelings-panic, fear. She grabbed her coat and trotted downstairs.
"Help!" someone was shouting. "Help! If you've got a boat, we need it! Every able-bodied seaman! Get to the harbor!"
A man in a burly coat brushed past Morgan and ran out the door, following the man who had shouted the alarm.
"What's going on?" Morgan asked the desk clerk. The woman's lined face was drawn taut with worry, her black hair making her face look even paler. "What's happened?"
Outside the front door two more men ran past, their hats pulled low against the driving rain. Morgan heard one shout, "Get to the harbor!"
"The ferry," said the woman, starting to tie a scarf around her head. "The ferry's gone down in the storm."
The icy rain felt like needles pelting her face as Morgan tore down the cobbled road toward the harbor. The three blocks seemed to take half an hour to run, and with every second an endless stream of thoughts raced through Morgan's head. Please let Hunter have been late, for once in his life. Please let it be a different ferry. Please let no one be hurt Please let Hunter be late. He's missed the ferry, he's missed the ferry, he's missed the ferry....
Down at the harbor the driving rain obscured vision, and at first Morgan could see only people running around and men starting the engines in their fishing boats. Then the local fire truck screamed up, looking ridiculously small and inadequate for this disaster. Morgan grabbed an older man's arm, hard, and hung on. "What happened?" she shouted, the wind tearing her voice away.
"The ferry went down!" he shouted back, trying to tug his arm free so he could go help.
"Which ferry?" An icy hand was slowly closing around Morgan's heart. She forced herself to have hope.
The man stared at her. "The only ferry! The eight-oh-five to Wexford!" Then he yanked his arm free, and Morgan watched numbly as he ran down a pier and jumped onto a fishing boat that was just pulling out into the choppy, white-capped waves.
This isn't happening. I'm going to wake up any minute. I know I'll wake up soon. Slowly Morgan turned in a circle, the rough wet stones beneath her feet making her feel off balance. Silently she begged for Hunter to come running toward her, a bag in his hand, having missed the ferry because he'd stopped to get a muffin, or tea, or anything. She cast out her senses. Nothing. She sent a witch message. Hunter, Hunter, come to me, come to me, I'm here, waiting. Nothing.
Rain soaked her hair, and the harsh wind whipped strands of it across her face. Morgan stood at the edge of the concrete pier, a heavy, rusty chain making a bone-chilling scraping sound as the wind pushed it to and fro. She closed her eyes and let her hands fall open at her sides. With experience born of years of practice, she sank quickly into a meditative state, going beneath the now, the outside, time itself, going deep to where time and thought and energy and magick blended to become one.
Gomanach. Her whole being focused on Hunter's name, his eyes, his scent, the feel of his skin, his smile, his laugh, his anger, his passion. In seconds she relived years of memories with him -Hunter fighting Cal, herself throwing an athame at Hunter's neck, him toppling over the cliff to the cold river below. Hunter placing sigils of protection around her parents' house, his fair hair glinting in the moonlight. Hunter holding her, wrapping his coat around her after she had shape-shifted. She had lain weeping in his arms, feeling as if her bones had snapped their joints, her muscles ripped in half. His voice, murmuring soothing spells to take away her pain and fear. She and Hunter, making love for the first time, the wonder of it, the beauty, the shock of pain and discomfort as they joined their bodies and their hearts. His eyes, wide and green above her. Other snatches of memories flew past, image after image; a remembered laugh, an emotion; a scent; the phase of the moon; circles of magick; witches wearing robes; Hunter's glowing aura; Hunter arguing, angry; Hunter crying silently as Morgan broke down.
"An nail nathrac,
" Morgan whispered into the rain. "An di allaigh, nail nithben, holleigh rac bier. . . ." And on the spell went, the strongest spell she could weave with no preparation. She called on the wind and the rain and the clouds. She opened her hands and the clouds lightened and began to part. She threw up her hands and the rain lessened, backing off as if chastised. Morgan didn't care if anyone was watching or not. Everything in her wrought a spell that would snatch Hunter back from the very brink of his grave. When she opened her eyes, the rain had slowed to a repentant drizzle; the seas had begun to calm. Morgan felt weak, nauseated, from working such powerful magick. Slowly she forced her legs to take her to the crowd of people huddling on the dock. Voices floated to her over the sounds of sobbing, like chunks of debris on water.
"Never seen nothing like it."
"Unnatural, that's what it was."
"Wave reached up and pulled them down."
"And then like that, the storm stopped."
Morgan froze when she saw the line of sheet-covered bodies on the ground. Men and women were crying, arguing, denying what had happened. Some ferry passengers had been saved, and they sat huddled, looking shocked and afraid.
Hunter wasn't among them. Nor among the dead, lying on the ground.
Morgan gathered every ounce of strength and power within her and sent it out in the world. If Hunter is alive, I will feel it. If any part of his spirit is there, I will feel it I will know. She stayed perfectly still, eyes closed, hands out. Her chest expanded and was aching with her effort. Never had she cast her senses, her powers with so much strength before. Never had everything in her striven to sense someone. She almost cried out with the strain of it, feeling as if she would fly apart. Hunter, are you alive? Where are you?
Suddenly Morgan dropped to her knees on the sharp cobblestones, feeling as if she'd been knocked to the ground. She saw the dock, the rain, the covered bodies, but the scene seemed muted, all sounds muffled, all objects leached of color. It was like the whole world had lost something, some element that made it clear and rich and full. And then she understood.
Oh my God. Oh my God. He's really gone. Hunter's gone.
She stared unseeingly at the churning, gray-green water. How could the sea dare to take the one she loved, her soul mate, her muirn beatha dan? Anguish poured out of her, and she howled, "Give him back!" She flung her arms wide, and then, to her astonishment, her silver claddagh ring- Hunter's ring-flew off her rain-slick finger and sailed through the air. Unbelieving, Morgan watched the silver shine dully in the thin gray sunlight, then drop into the sea without a sound. It disappeared in an instant, sinking quickly and silently into the opaque water.
Her ring, Hunter's ring. It, too, was now gone forever. No, no.
Her world collapsed around her in a furious whirl of gray despair. Hands out, Morgan fell forward onto her face, not caring if she ever got up again.
1
Moira
"So I said,'Oh, Mum, don't get your knickers in a twist,"' Moira Byrne said, licking the steamed milk of her latte off the spoon. She smiled angelically at her friends and took a big, slurping sip. Finally the long "regular" school day was over, and she, Tess, and Vita had headed to Margath's Faire, on the outskirts of Cobh. The first floor was an occult book and supplies shop; the second floor was a cafe, where they sometimes had readings or music; and the third floor was for various Wiccan classes or study groups. The three girls had grabbed a table in the cafe, in the back corner.
"Away with ya," said Tess Summerall, laughing in disbelief.
"Right, I can see you being cheeky to Morgan of Belwicket, mum or no," Vita O'Shaunessy agreed, grinning. "Are you grounded, then?"
Moira took another sip and shook her head. Her light, reddish-gold hair, with its three green streaks on the left side, swung over her shoulders. "Amazingly, no," she admitted. "I turned on the famous Moira Byrne charm and convinced her it was for my spellcraft class."
Tess's blue eyes widened. "I can't believe your charm works on your own mum, and you know, spelling your initials with ladybugs on the garden wall was not what Keady meant for spellcraft class."
Moira laughed, remembering again how astonished she had been when her spell had worked. It had been the most complicated one she had ever tried, and watching the tiny, red-winged ladybugs slowly spell out MB had been incredibly satisfying. Until her mother had come home and caught her. "It was brilliant," she said. "I really should get top marks for it."
Vita rolled her eyes. "You probably will. Especially if you use the famous Moira Byrne charm."
Moira giggled. Keady Dove, their spellcraft teacher, was as traditional as her own mother. Admitting that she had toyed with the wills of ladybugs just for a lark would not go over well.
Standing, Tess asked, "Anyone want anything? I'm getting another espresso." At her full height, Tess was five feet two, six inches shorter than Moira and with all the fine-boned daintiness Moira felt she lacked. Tess's naturally black hair was cut short and spiky, with magenta-dyed tips. Much more daring than Moira's three green stripes, which were supposed to have been wash-out dye for St. Patrick's Day but had turned out to be permanent. She'd asked her mum to take them out with magick, and her mum had refused. Her dad had just laughed and hugged her. "It's not so bad, Daisy. It'll probably only take six or seven years to grow out."
Moira had moaned, allowing herself to be held by her dad, even though she was fifteen-too old to be cuddled or called Daisy, the pet name her father had always used.
"Think of it as character building," her mum had suggested, and her dad had laughed again. Her dad and mum had met eyes and smiled at each other, and Moira had known it was a lost cause. She'd called Tess and complained about the permanent dye being the "worst thing" to happen to her.
That had been seven months ago. One month later her dad had been killed in a car wreck in London, where he'd gone on business. Now she wished more than anything that the green streaks could really have been her worst problem-and that Colm Byrne was still waiting at home to back up her mum in a lecture about the latest trouble Moira had gotten into.
"Moira?" Tess asked, waiting for an answer.
"Oh, no thanks. I'm fine." Moira forced a thin smile.
"All right, then?" Vita asked once Tess had left. Her round face looked concerned.
"Oh, you know," Moira said vaguely. Vita nodded sympathetically and patted Moira's hand in an old-fashioned gesture Moira found touching.
"I know. I'm here, whenever you want to talk."
Moira nodded. "I'd rather be distracted, really," she said.
"Well, good," Vita said. "Because I was wondering if you could help me study for herbology. I got all the nightshades mixed up on the last test, and Christa was very disappointed." Vita lowered her voice to sound like Christa Ryan, one of their initiation-class teachers.
"Sure," Moira said. "Come over tonight or tomorrow and we'll go over everything. I'll share all the Moira Byrne wisdom with you."
Vita threw a paper napkin at her, and Moira laughed. "You mean the Moira Byrne wisdom that had you spelling your initials with bugs?" Vita asked dryly.
"Right! That wisdom!"
Tess came back and sat down, curling one leg neatly beneath her.
"You're so dainty," Moira said with a sigh, wishing the same could be said about her. Then she froze in her seat, her hazel eyes wide. One hand reached out to grab Tess's arm. "Goddess-I think he's here, downstairs," she whispered. She hadn't deliberately been casting her senses, but her neck had prickled, and when she concentrated, she thought she felt lan's vibrations.
Vita fluttered her eyelids. "Oh, no-I don't think I can take the excitement of seeing Ian Delaney. Someone help me. Fetch a cold cloth." She swayed in her chair while Tess broke up with laughter. Moira looked at her.
"I'll fetch you a cold cloth," she said, "for your mouth."
Vita and Tess laughed harder, and Moira narrowed her eyes. "Could we have more sympathy, please?" she asked. "How often do I fancy a lad?"
"Not
often," Tess agreed, sobering. "Everyone, be casual."
This made Vita laugh again. Moira turned her attention to her latte as though it were all-absorbing. Come up here, she thought. Come upstairs. You're thirsty.
She wasn't putting a spell on Ian or sending him a witch message. She was just wishing hard. Ian Delaney had transferred to her regular school two years ago, and Moira had immediately developed a crush on him. He was gorgeous in a rough-cut kind of way, with thick brown hair that never looked quite tidy enough, deep blue eyes, and one dimple in his right cheek when he smiled. He'd been such a refresh- ing change from some of the more upper-class snobs who went to Moira's school-outspoken, funny in a cheeky way, and completely unable to be intimidated, either by teachers or students.
Best of all, he was a witch.
Unfortunately, all last year Moira had been invisible to him-not that she had even tried to get his attention. But this year ... he had sat next to her in study hall. Lent her some graph paper in math class. Borrowed a quid from her-and paid her back. And just in the last month Moira had actually started trying to flirt with him, in a lame, inexperienced way, she admitted. But he seemed to be responding.
"I can't feel him," said Vita. "Is he coming up?"
"Not yet," said Moira. "He's still downstairs."
Tess grinned. "Shall I fetch him up here? I'll stand at the top of the stairs and yell, 'Oy! You there, boy. Up here!'"
Moira's chest tightened. "If you do . . ." she breathed in warning, shaking her head. Tess was so much more confident about lads. It wasn't that Moira didn't have confidence-she knew that she was good at magick and that she had an ability to learn anything if she put her mind to it. She never questioned how much her family loved her. But where she did fall apart was with the whole world of boys, dating, and flirting.
Come upstairs, Ian. You're thirsty. Or hungry. Or you're looking for me.
"Does your mum know about Ian?" Tess asked.
Moira shook her head. "No. We're not dating-it's not like I've had him home to tea."