The Coven s-2 Read online

  The Coven

  ( Sweep - 2 )

  Cate Tiernan

  Morgan has discovered she is a blood witch — that means the people she thought were her parents and her sister are not related to her, that she was adopted. She confronts her parents who reluctantly admit the adoption. Morgan is determined to find out more about her birth parents but her family try to stop her — why don't they want her to know the truth? Morgan's story is intersperced with extracts from her blood mother's Book of Shadows (a witch's book of personal spells, etc.). At the end Morgan finds her mother's Book of Shadows in her boyfriend's mother's private library.

  THE COVEN

  Sweep Series, Book 2

  Cate Tiernan

  PROLOGUE

  I was dancing. In the atmosphere, surrounded by stars, seeing motes of energy whizzing past me like microscopic comets. I could see the entire universe, all at once; every particle, every smile, every fly, every grain of sand was revealed to me and was infinitely beautiful.

  When I breathed in, I breathed in the very essence of fife* and I breathed out white light. It was beautiful, more than beautiful, but I didn't have the words to express it even to myself. I understood everything; I understood my place in the universe; I understood the path I had to follow.

  Then I smiled and blinked and breathed out again, and I was standing in a darkened graveyard with nine high school friends, and tears were running down my face.

  "Are you okay?" Robbie asked in concern, coming over to me.

  At first it seemed he was speaking gibberish, but then I understood what he had said, and I nodded.

  "It was so beautiful," I said lamely, my voice breaking, I felt unbearably diminished after my vision. I reached my finger out to touch Robbie's cheek. My finger left a warm pink line where it touched, and Robbie rubbed his cheek, looking confused.

  The vases of flowers were on the altar, and I walked toward them, mesmerized by their beauty and also the overwhelming sadness of the flowers deaths. I touched one bud, and it opened beneath my hand, blooming In death as It hadn't been allowed to in life. I heard Raven gasp and knew that Bree and Beth and Matt backed away from me then.

  Then Cal was next to me. "Quit touching things," he said quietly, smiling. "Lie down and ground yourself."

  He guided me to an open spot within our circle, and I lay down on my back, feeling the pulsing life of the earth centering me, easing the energy from me, making me feel more normal. My perceptions focused, and I saw the coven clearly, saw the candles, the stars, the fruit as themselves again and not as pulsing blobs of energy.

  "What's happening to me?" I whispered. Cal sat cross-legged and lifted my head onto his lap, stroking my hair strewn across his legs. Robbie knelt next to him. Etan, Beth and Sharon circled closer, peering over his sholder at me as if I were a museum display. Jenna was holding Matt around his waist, as if she were afraid. Raven and Bree were the farthest back, and Bree looked wide-eyed and solemn.

  "You made magick," Cal said, gazing at me with those endless golden eyes. "You're a blood witch."

  My eyes opened wider as his face slowly blotted out the moon above me. With his eyes deeply into mine, he touched my mouth with his, and with a sense of shock I realized he was kissing me. My arms felt heavy as I moved them up to encircle his neck, and then I was kissing him back, and we were joined, and the magick crackled all around us.

  In that moment of sheer happiness I didn't question what being a blood witch meant to me or my family or what Cal and I being together meant to Bree or Raven or Robbie or anyone else. It would be my first lesson in magick, and it would be hard learned: seeing the big picture, not just a part of it

  CHAPTER 1

  After Samhain

  This book is given to my incandescent one, my fire fairy, Bradhadair, on her fourteenth birthday. Welcome to Belwicket. With love from Mathair.

  This book is private. Keep out.

  Imbolc, 1976

  Here's an easy spell to start my Book of Shadows. I got it from Betts Jowson, except I use black candles and she uses blue.

  To Get Rid of a Bad Habit

  1. Light alter candles.

  2. Light black candle. Say: "This holds me back. No more will I do it. No more is it part of me."

  3. Light white candle, Say: "This is my might and my courage and my victory. This battle is already won."

  4. Picture in your mind the bad habit you want to break. Picture yourself free from it. After a few minutes of imagining victory, put out the black candle, then the white candle.

  5. Repeat a week later if necessary. Best done during a waning moon.

  I did this last Thursday as part of my initiation. I haven't bitten my nails since.

  — Bradhadair

  I woke slowly on the day after Samhain. I tried to resist the light behind my eyes, but soon I was awake, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  My room was barely light. It was the first day of November, and the warmth of autumn had leached away. I stretched, then was flooded with memories and sensations so strong that I sat straight up in bed.

  Shivering, I saw again Cal leaning over me, kissing me. Me, kissing Cal back, my arms around his neck, his hair soft beneath my fingers. The connection we made, our magick, the electricity, the sparks, the way the universe swirled around us, I am a blood witch, I thought I am a blood witch, and Cal loves me, and I love Cal. And that's the way it is.

  The night before, I'd had my first kiss, found my first love. I had also betrayed my best friend, created a rift in my new coven, and realized my parents had lied to me my whole life.

  All of this happened on Samhain, October 31, the witches' New Year. My new year, my new life.

  I lay back down in bed, the coziness of my flannel sheets and comforter reassuring. Last night I had seen my dreams come true. Now I knew, with a coldness in my stomach, I would pay the price for them. I felt much older than sixteen.

  Blood witch, I thought Cal says that's what I am, and after last night, after what I did, how can I doubt it? It must be true. I am a blood witch. In my veins flows blood that has been Inherited from thousands of years of magick making, thousands of years of witches intermarrying. I'm one of them, from one of the Seven Great Clans: Rowanwand, Wyndenkell, Leapvaughn, Vikroth, Brightendale, Burnhide, and Woodbane.

  But which one? Rowanwand, both teachers and hoarders of knowledge? Wyndenkeil, the expert spell writers? Vikroth? The Vikroths were magickal warriors, later related to Vikings. I smiled. I didn't feel very warriorlike.

  The Leapvaughns were mischief makers, joke players. The Burnhide clan focused on doing magick with gems, crystals, and metals, and the Brightandales were the medical clan, using the magick of plants to heal. Or… there was Woodbane. I shivered. There was no way I was of the dark clan, the ones who wanted power at any cost, the ones who battled and betrayed their fellow clans for control of land, of magickal power, of knowledge.

  I considered it. Of the seven great clans, if I was in fact from one of them, I felt most like the Brightendales, the healers. I had discovered that I loved plants, that they spoke to me, that using their magickal powers came naturally to me. I hugged myself, smiling. A Brightendale. A real blood witch.

  Which means my parents must also be blood witches, I thought. It was a stunning notion. It made me wonder why we'd been going to church every Sunday for as long as I could remember. I mean, I liked my church. I liked going to services. They seemed beautiful and traditional and comforting. But Wicca felt more natural.

  I sat up in bed again. Two images kept coming at me: Cal leaning over me, his golden eyes locked on mine. And Bree, my best friend: the shock and pain on her face as she saw Cal and me together. The accusation, hurt, desire. Rage.

  What have I done? I wondered.


  I heard my parents downstairs in the kitchen, starting coffee, unloading the dishwasher. Flopping back down in bed, I listened to the familiar sounds: Not every single thing in my life had changed last night.

  Someone opened the front door to get the paper. Today was Sunday, which meant church, followed by brunch at the Widow's Diner. Seeing Cal later? Would I talk to him? Were we going out now, a couple? He had kissed me in front of everyone—what had it meant? Was Cal Blaire, beautiful Cal Blaire, really attracted to me, Morgan Rowlands? Me, with my flat chest and my assertive nose? Me, who guys never looked at twice?

  I stared up at my ceiling as if the answers were written on the cracked plaster. When the door to my room burst open, I jumped.

  "Can you explain this?" my mom asked. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth tight, with deeply carved lines around it. She held up a small stack of books, tied with string. They were the books I had left at Bree's house because I knew my parents didn't want me to have them, my books on Wicca, the Seven Great Clans, the history of witchcraft. A note attached to the books said in big letters: Morgan—You left these at my house. Thought you might need them. Sitting up, I realized this was Bree's revenge.

  "I thought we had an understanding," Mom said, her voice rising. She leaned out my bedroom door and yelled, "Sean!"

  I swung my legs out of bed. The floor was cold, and I pushed my feet into my slippers.

  "Well?" Mom's voice was a decibel louder, and my dad came into my room, looking alarmed.

  "Mary Grace?" he said. "What's going on?"

  Mom held up the books as if they were a dead rat. "These were on the front porch!" she said. "Look at the note!"

  She turned back to me. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, incredulous. "When I said I didn't want these books in my house, that didn't mean I wanted you reading them in someone else's house! You knew what I meant, Morgan!"

  "Mary Grace," my dad soothed, taking the books from her. He read their titles silently.

  My younger sister, Mary K., padded into the room, still in her plaid patchwork pajamas. "What's going on?" she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. No one answered.

  I tried to think fast. "Those books aren't dangerous or illegal. And I wanted to read them. I'm not a child—I'm sixteen. Anyway, I was respecting your wishes not to have them in the house."

  "Morgan," my dad said, sounding uncharacteristically stern. "It's not just having the books In the house, and you know it. We explained that as Catholics, we feel that witchcraft is wrong. It may not be illegal, but it's blasphemous."

  "You are sixteen," Mom put in. "Not eighteen. That means you are still a child." Her face was flushed, her hair unbrushed. I could see silver strands among the red. It hit me that in four years she would be fifty. That suddenly seemed old.

  "You live under our roof," Mom continued tightly. "We support you. When you're eighteen and you move out and get a job, you can have whatever books you want, read whatever you want. But while you're in this house, what we say goes."

  I started to get angry. Why were they acting this way?

  But before I said anything, a verse came into my head. Leash my anger, calm my words. Speak in love and do no hurt.

  Where did that come from? I wondered vaguely. But whatever its origin, it felt right. I said it to myself three times and felt my emotions ratchet down.

  "I understand," I said. Suddenly I felt powerful and confident. I looked at my parents and my sister. "But Mom, It isn't that easy," I explained gently. "And you know why, I know you do. I'm a witch. I was born a witch. And if I was, then you were, too."

  CHAPTER 2

  Different

  December 14, 1976

  Circle last night at the currachdag on the west cliffs. Fifteen of us in all, including me, Angus, Mannannan, the rest of Belwicket, and two students, Tara and Cliff. It was cold, and a fine rain fell. Standing around the great heap of pat, we did some healing for old Mrs. Paxham, down to the village, who's been ailing. I felt the cumhachd, the power, in my fingers, in my arms, and I was happy and danced for hours.

  — Bradhadair

  My mother looked like she was about to have a stroke. Dad's mouth dropped open. Mary K. stared at me, her brown eyes wide.

  Mom's mouth worked as if she was trying to speak but couldn't form the words. Her face was pale, and I wanted to tell her to sit down, to take it easy. But I kept silent. I knew this was a turning point for us, and I couldn't back down.

  "What did you say?" Her voice was a raw whisper.

  "I said I'm a witch," I repeated calmly, though inside, my nerves were stretched and taut. "I'm a blood witch, a genetic witch. And if I am, you two must be also."

  "What are you talking about?" Mary K. said. "There's no such thing as a genetic witch! God, next you'll be telling us there are vampires and werewolves." She looked at me in disbelief, her plaid pajamas seeming young and innocent. Suddenly I felt guilty, as if I had brought evil into the house. But that wasn't true, was it? All I had brought into the house was me, a part of me.

  I raised my hand, then let it fall, not knowing what to say.

  "I can't believe you," Mary K. said. "What are you trying to do?" She gestured toward our parents.

  Ignoring her, Mom said faintly, "You're not a witch."

  I almost snorted. "Mom, please. That's like saying I'm not a girl or I'm not human. Of course I'm a witch, and you know it. You've always known it"

  "Morgan, just stop it!" Mary K. pleaded. "You're freaking me out. You want to read witch books? Fine. Read witch books, light candles, whatever. But quit saying you're really a witch. That's bullshit!"

  Mom snapped her gaze to Mary K., startled. "Scuse me," Mary K. muttered.

  "I'm sorry, Mary K.," I said. "It's not something I wanted to happen. But it's true." A thought occurred to me. "You must be one, too," I said, finding that idea fascinating. I looked up at her, excited. "Mary K., you must be a witch, too!"

  "She is not a witch!" my mom shrieked, and I stopped, frozen by the sound of her voice. She looked enraged, the veins in her neck standing out, her face flushed. "You leave her out of it!"

  "But—," I began.

  "Mary K. is not a witch, Morgan," my dad said harshly.

  I shook my head. "But she has to be," I said. "I mean, it's genetic. And if I am, and you are, then…"

  "Nobody is a witch," my mom said shortly, not meeting my eyes. "Certainly not Mary Kathleen."

  They were in denial. But why?

  "Mom, it's okay. Really. More than okay. Being a witch is a wonderful thing," I said, thinking back to the feelings I'd hid last night. "It's like being—"

  "Will you stop?" Mom burst out. "Why are you doing this? Why can't you just listen to us?" She sounded on the verge of tears, and I was getting angry again.

  "I can't listen to you because you're wrong!" I said loudly. "Why are you denying all of this?"

  "We're not witches!" my mom screeched, practically rattling my windows.

  She glared at me. My dad's mouth was open, and Mary K. looked miserable. I felt the first hint of fear.

  "Oh," I snapped. "I guess I'm a witch, but you're not, right?" I snorted, furious at their stubbornness, their lies. "Then what?" I crossed my arms and looked at them. "Was I adopted?"

  Silence. Long moments of the clock ticking, the thin, scratchy sound of elm twigs brushing my windowpanes. My heartbeat seemed to go into slow motion. Mom groped for my desk chair, then sank into it heavily. My dad shifted from foot to foot, looking over my left shoulder at nothing. Mary K. stared at all of us.

  "What?" I tried to smile. "What? What are you saying? I'm adopted?"

  "Of course you're not adopted!" said Mary K., looking at Mom and Dad for their agreement. Silence.

  Inside me, a wall came crashing down, and I saw what lay behind it: a whole world I had never dreamed of, a world in which I was adopted, not biologically related to my family. My throat closed and my stomach clenched, and I was afraid I was going to throw up. But I
had to know.

  I pushed past Mary K. into the hallway, then thundered down the steps two at a time. I tore around the corner, hearing my parents on the steps behind me. In the family office I yanked open my dad's files, where he keeps things like insurance papers, our passports, their marriage license … birth certificates.

  Breathing hard, I flipped through files on car insurance, the house's AC system, our new water heater. My file read Morgan. I pulled it out just as my parents came into the office.

  "Morgan! Stop it!" said Dad.

  Ignoring him, I rifled through immunization records, school reports, my social security card.

  There it was. My birth certificate. I picked it up and scanned it Birthday, November 23. Correct Weight, eight pounds, ten ounces.

  My mom reached around me and snatched the birth certificate out of my hand. As if in a slapstick movie, I snatched it back. She held tight with both hands, and the paper ripped.

  Dropping to my knees, I hunched over my half on the floor, protecting it till I could read it. Age of mother: 23. No. That was wrong because Mom had been thirty before the had me.

  Then the edges of the paper grew cloudy as my eyes locked onto four words: Mother's name: Maeve Riordan.

  I blinked, reading it again and again at the speed of light Maeve Riordan. Mother's name: Maeve Riordan.

  Mechanically I read down to the bottom of my torn page, expecting to see my mom's real name, Mary Grace Rowlands, somewhere. Anywhere.

  Shocked, I looked up at my mother. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last half hour. My dad, behind her, was tight-lipped and silent.

  I held up the paper, my brain misfiring. "What does this mean?" I asked stupidly.

  My parents didn't answer, and I stared at them. My fears came crashing down on me in hard waves. Suddenly I couldn't bear to be with them. I had to get away. Scrambling to my feet I rushed from the room, colliding with Mary K., almost knocking her down. The torn scrap of paper fluttered from my fingers as I pushed through the kitchen door and grabbed the keys to my car. I raced outside as if the devil were chasing me.