Night's Child s-15 Page 12

  Moira grinned with delight. "Next thing you know, you'll be doing it with ladybugs," she said, and Ian laughed.

  The wind scattered her initials, and she leaned closer to him, feeling cozy.

  "No, not ladybugs," he said, still smiling. "But maybe something a little bigger." He began to murmur some words, and Moira thought she recognized their form as being a weather- working spell. She raised her eyebrows. Weather working was considered taboo unless you had a very good reason. Of course, so was turning pages in people's books without their permission and writing one's initials in ladybugs… but it wasn't as if any of it actually hurt anyone.

  "Oh my gosh…," Moira breathed, staring at the sky. Almost imperceptibly, Ian was sculpting the clouds above and had gently morphed them into a huge, puffy M and a huge, puffy B. She laughed, but he wasn't finished, and soon a large plus sign floated next to her B, followed by a capital I and a D. MB + ID.

  Laughing, Moira gently smacked his knee with her hand. "Lovely-the world's largest graffiti." They smiled at each other, and then Moira said, "That's amazing-thank you. But maybe you shouldn't risk working weather magick."

  "There's no risk in playing with clouds," Ian said reasonably. "I've always done it. It can be so cool." In the sky the letters were already wisping away. It had seemed harmless, Moira thought.

  "You try it," Ian urged her. "You know how."

  Moira hesitated for a second. Members of Belwicket-especially uninitiated ones-were not allowed to work weather charms. Belwicket has such a narrow view of things sometimes. Anyway, she probably wouldn't be able to do it-she wasn't initiated and had no practice.

  "Right, then. Here goes," she said, closing her eyes and thinking about what she wanted to do. She thought about the clouds, their heavy grayness and the letters Ian had formed. Then she began to chant her coven's basic form of weather- working spells, adding in a ribbon of allowing the clouds to be whatever they wanted to be. She was proud of herself for remembering to weave in a time limitation and a place limitation. Instead of forcing the clouds into a picture she wanted, she would let them create one of their own, using their own essences. Frankly, she thought her idea was really cool.

  Crack! Moira's eyes flew open as lightning bleached the world. Moments later a huge rumble of thunder shook their bench.

  Her startled eyes met Ian’s. "What did you do?" he asked with a mixture of amusement and concern.

  "I let them be what they wanted?" Moira said uncertainly.

  Another huge crack of lightning split the air not far away. Moira smelled the sizzle of ozone and felt her hair fill with static electricity. The enormous clap of thunder that fol-

  lowed the lightning sounded like a cannon going off right beside her ear.

  "I think it wants to be a mother of a storm," Ian said, standing up and taking her hand. "Please tell me it won't last long."

  "Four minutes," Moira said, then gasped as the sky opened and sheets of chilly rain dumped onto the streets. All around them people scurried for shelter. Dogs whined and barked, shoppers ducked back into stores they'd just come out of, and the whole world looked as if someone had turned off the light.

  "Teatime," Ian said as another wave of thunder crashed down around them. He pulled Moira quickly up the block, then turned and ran down another street. By now they were soaked and Moira's teeth were chattering. Two more blocks seemed to take hours, with the frigid rain pelting their faces and clothes, their wet backpacks becoming heavier by the second. Finally they could see the sign for Margath's Faire and Moira leaped through the door after Ian.

  Oh, warmth, blessed warmth, she thought, shivering. Light. The smells of cinnamon and tea and something baking and candle wax.

  For a minute Ian and Moira stood inside the door, silently dripping. Then they headed upstairs to the cafe, where Ian spotted an empty table. They grabbed it, shrugging out of their sodden jackets and dropping into seats still warm from the last customers. Ian shook his head, and fine droplets of water hit the table. Moira held up her hand. "Hey! I'm wet enough."

  He grinned and took a paper napkin from the dispenser. Leaning over, he gently patted her face dry, which made Moira practically glow. "I can see why you were concerned about playing with clouds," he said low, so no one could hear.

  Moira made an embarrassed face. "Sorry," she said. "I thought the clouds would just make themselves into a nice picture."

  "Your clouds seem to have had delusions of grandeur," Ian told her, and she giggled.

  Privately, Moira was unnerved that she had worked such powerful magick. She just prayed her mum or gran never found out. They would have her hide.

  Ian fetched them both hot tea and a plate of scones with cream and jam. You are wonderful, Moira thought, suddenly ravenous. She checked her watch-an hour before dinner.

  "I better let my mum know where I am again," she said apologetically, feeling like a baby. But she had promised. Moira looked off into the distance, concentrating but not closing her eyes. She formed her thoughts and sent them out into the world, aimed at her mother.

  I'm at Margath's Faire with Ian. I'll be home when the rain stops.

  All right. See you soon. Be careful.

  Blinking, Moira came back to the moment and smiled ruefully at Ian. He was looking at her curiously.

  "Did you send a witch message to your mum?"

  "Uh-huh. She likes to know where I am. She worries."

  "You can send witch messages, and you're not initiated yet?"

  Moira looked up in surprise from where she was spreading jam on her scone. "Well, mostly just to Mum. Tess and Vita and I practice, but it's not so reliable."

  "That's amazing," said Ian, warming Moira inside. She shrugged self-consciously and took a bite of scone. "And you always let your mum know where you are? Like yesterday, at Elise's Brook?"

  Now she was embarrassed. He must think she was a total git.

  "Yeah," she mumbled, looking at her plate.

  "No, no, don't get me wrong," he said, leaning over and putting his hand on her knee. "I'm not trying to tease you. I just think it's amazing you can do that. All right?"

  Moira looked at him, at his earnest face, his eyes, the lips that had kissed her so many times yesterday. He meant it.

  "All right," she said, but she still felt self-conscious.

  "Anyway-everything okay?" Ian asked lightly. "Did Morgan of Belwicket suspect you had anything to do with the storm?"

  "I don't think so," Moira said, just as a man from the next table turned toward them.

  Moira glanced over and found him looking at her. She frowned slightly and met Ian’s eyes, then looked back at her scone. The man seemed familiar-did she know him from somewhere?

  "Excuse me," he said, in a strong Scottish brogue. "Did you say Morgan of Belwicket?"

  "Why do you ask?" Ian said, a touch of coolness entering his voice.

  The man shrugged. "I'm on my way to see her. Passing through town. On my way to Dublin. Thought I'd drop in." He took a sip of his tea, and Moira looked at him more closely. He looked very familiar. He was maybe a little older than her mum, with dark auburn hair and dark eyes. Moira didn't think she'd ever met him-she would have remembered. His face was very alive, very knowing, with laugh lines etched around his eyes and a half smile lingering on his lips.

  "What do you want with her?" Moira asked. Things had been tense lately, with the attack on the coven and all. But she didn't want to sound overly rude in case he really was a friend of Mum's.

  "Dropping in, like I told you. Usually she comes to see me-she travels a lot. This time I thought I'd save her a trip."

  Moira's eyes narrowed. So he knew her mum traveled a lot. "Really? Who are you?"

  The man smiled charmingly, and if Moira hadn't been on guard, her defenses would have melted. He was very attractive, she realized, startled to think that way about someone so many years older. But at that moment he radiated good will, humor, benevolence. Ian took her hand under the table and squeezed her fingers.
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  "I'm her brother, dear heart," the man said. "And who are you?"

  Moira's eyes widened for a second before a look of suspicion came over her face. "She doesn't have a brother. She only has a sister."

  "Actually, no," said the man with a friendly smile. "She has her American sister, the delightful Mary K., and then she also has me and two other siblings. Or half siblings, I should say."

  "No," said Moira.

  "How do you know?" the man asked playfully.

  Ian squeezed Moira's fingers again, but not before she said,"I'm her daughter."

  "Her daughter?" said the man, his eyes lighting up. "You're Moira, then. But I thought you were barely twelve or so. How time flies. Say hello to your Uncle Killian. Killian MacEwan."

  Moira frowned. Why did that name sound familiar? Ian’s hand had tightened on hers almost painfully, and she shook her fingers free before he cut off the circulation. Had her mum ever mentioned that name? Had she ever mentioned a half brother? No. But then, Mum hadn't mentioned Cal Blaire or Selene Belltower or shape-shifting into a bloody hawk, either.

  "How could you be her half brother?"

  "We had the same da, sweetheart, though your mum didn't know it till she was practically full grown."

  Moira thought back. "Angus Bramson? Maeve Riordan's husband?"

  "Angus wasn't her Da. It was Ciaran MacEwan, my father."

  He spoke softly, so probably no one else in the tea shop heard them. Still, to Moira it seemed as though the world stopped for a moment, all conversation ceased, every movement stilled.

  She knew the name Ciaran MacEwan. Everyone knew it. It was right up there with other historical mass murderers.

  "I don't understand," Moira said. "Ciaran MacEwan was your father? My mother's father?" A chill of fear went down her still-damp back, as if she expected him to whip out a wand and put curses on everyone in the room. Especially her.

  Killian gave a long-suffering sigh that managed to convey his own personal regret that he hadn't chosen his parents better. "Aye, that he was, I'm afraid. And Morgan's, too. But if you're her daughter, why don't you know that?" He cocked his head and looked at her.

  Across the table, Ian looked frozen. Moira immediately felt horrified that he was here, listening to this stuff. It couldn't possibly be true. If it were true…

  "Because it isn't true," Moira said firmly. "You're making it up. Why in the world would you think Ciaran MacEwan could be my mum's father? This is nonsense. I'm going." She stood up abruptly and grabbed her book bag. Ian got up also, moving his chair so she could get out. "Come on," he said. "I'll see you home." He glanced at the stranger, but it wasn't a glance of revulsion or distrust. More like awe, Moira thought, and that upset her even more. How could Ian be so stupid? Ciaran MacEwan was evil personified. That's his son! She was so overwhelmed right now, she couldn't handle worrying about Ian and his motives. She had to be able to trust him, at least.

  She pushed out of Margath's Faire into the street, to see that the rain had stopped and the sun had gone down and she had a long bicycle ride in the dark. Dammit. She'd just leave her bike at school and take the bus home.

  "Hi, Morgan's daughter," came a voice from behind them: Killian's. "Can I offer you a lift? I'm going to your mother's now."

  He had to be kidding. Like she hadn't heard enough horror stories about strangers in general and the MacEwans in particular. This guy's dad had helped develop the dark wave that had killed hundreds and hundreds of innocent witches and nonwitches.

  "No," she said firmly, glancing back. "I can get home myself, thank you."

  8. Morgan

  Morgan answered Katrina's gentle tap on the door. Rain and wind gusted in with her mother-in-law.

  "Hi," Morgan said. "Where did this storm come from? Moira's caught in it in Cobh."

  "It's not a natural storm," said Katrina, sitting stiffly in a chair at the dining table. "You didn't work it, did you?"

  "Me?" Morgan looked at her in surprise as she put the teakettle on the stove. "No, of course not. Why?"

  Katrina shrugged. "Someone did. No one I recognize. But it is magickal."

  Uneasy, Morgan filled the teapot and fetched two mugs. She'd been so deep in her thoughts she hadn't even sensed the magick behind the storm. Now someone was working weather magick. Was it Ealltuinn? Were they behind all of the things that had been happening? "I didn't sense it," she murmered

  "You could, if you were outside for a minute," said Katrina.

  Something in the older woman's voice made Morgan look up. "What is it, Katrina?" She slid into a chair and started to pour the tea.

  "Morgan-have you been working magick I don't know about?" Katrina looked uncomfortable and concerned. "I don't mean herb spells and practice rites. I mean big magick, dangerous magick, that none of us know about."

  "Goddess, no, Katrina! How can you ask that?"

  Katrina's blue eyes met Morgan's over the table. She hesitated, circling her hand widdershins over her mug to cool the tea. "I don't know," she said finally. "I just feel… off. I feel like something is off somewhere. Out of balance. And then that black smoke."

  Nodding, Morgan said, "Keady Dove and I are trying to trace it. We need more people, though. Perhaps tomorrow you, Christa, and Will can help us."

  "Yes, of course," said Katrina. "That's a good idea." She fidgeted in her chair, looking around. "I just feel-off balance." She seemed frustrated about not being able to explain it better.

  "It isn't because of anything I've been doing," Morgan said. "But there's been some odd stuff happening, that's a fact."

  She told Katrina about the face in the window, the chunk of morganite, and even her dream. "Plus there was the hex pouch and the black smoke. Now a worked storm." She listened and realized that the storm had already blown over.

  "Odd, odd." Katrina shook her head. "Let's try to scry now. Maybe if we join our powers, we can begin to figure out what's going on. It doesn't seem like we can afford to wait until tomorrow." Morgan glanced at the clock. It was almost six, but when Moira was with Ian, time seemed to have no meaning. She nodded.

  Morgan generally scried with fire, which spoke the truth and could be very powerful, but often showed only what it wanted you to see. Colm had only rarely scried-it didn't work well for him. Some people used water or stone. Hunter had used stone. It was difficult and gave up its knowledge only reluctantly, but what it told you could be relied upon.

  Morgan fetched a short pillar candle from her workroom. It was a deep cream color, and Morgan had carved runes into it and laid spells upon it to help clarify its visions.

  Morgan set the candle in the center of the table, dimmed the room's lights, and sat down across from Katrina. They linked hands across the table.

  "Goddess, we call on thee to help us see what we should know," Morgan said. "We open ourselves to the knowledge of the universe. Please help us receive your messages. Someone is working against us-please show us their face and their reasoning."

  "We ask it in the name of goodness," Katrina murmured.

  Morgan looked at the candle's blackened, curled wick. Fire, she thought, and pictured the first spark igniting. With a tiny crackle the wick burst into flame, coiling more tightly in the fire's heat. A thin spire of joy rose steadily in Morgan's chest: magick. It was the life force inside her.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Relax each muscle. Relax your eyelids, your hands, your calves, your spine. Release everything. Release tension, release emotion of all kinds. Release your tenacious grip on this world, this time, to free yourself to receive information from all worlds, from all times. Scrying was a journey taken within. The fire called to her, beckoned. The candle released a slow, steady scent of beeswax and heat. Show me, Morgan whispered silently. Show me.

  A tannish blotch formed before her, blotting out some of the candle's light. Morgan squinted, and the splotch widened and narrowed. It looked like a… beach. The image pulled back a bit, and Morgan could see a thin rim of blue-green water, cloudy and cold
-looking, pelted by rain, crashing against the narrow spit of sand that flowed horizontally across her vision. The coastline was dotted with gray-blue rocks, pebbles, boulders, thick, sharp shards of shale pushing upward through the beach, thrust there by some prehistoric earthquake, now clawing the sky like clumsy fingers of stone.

  A beach. A beach with cold gray water and stones. Where was it? It was impossible to say. But there was no southern sunshine, no pure white sand, no clear water showing rays and corals. It was a northern beach, maybe at the top of Ireland or off the coast of Scotland?

  A dim, slight figure started wandering toward the water. Morgan knew better than to look directly at it: like many optical illusions, if you stared straight at a vision, it often disappeared. She kept her gaze focused on the center, feeling the slight warmth of the candle on her face. The figure became clearer. It, too, was the color of bleached sand, tan and cream, and it had splotches of crimson on its chest, the top of its head. It was tall, thin, and it was staggering. A man.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Expect nothing: accept what conies. Show me.

  The man approached the water, then dropped to his hands and knees, his head hanging low. Who? Morgan didn't ask the question, just let the word float gently out of her consciousness. Soon the figure seemed larger, closer. Morgan tried not to look, tried only to see without looking.

  The man raised his head and looked into Morgan's eyes, and her heart stopped with one last, icy beat.

  Hunter.

  A much older, ragged Hunter. His hair was long and wispy and so was his darker beard. His eyes were dark, haunted, like an animal's, full of pain. His rag of a shirt was tannish, the color of the beach, except for a rust-colored stain sprayed across the chest-blood. His head, too, was marked with blood, old blood, from an old wound, and in that instant Morgan saw in her mind a jagged chunk of shale clipping Hunter across the head, leaving that blood, that wound. Scents rushed toward her: the bitter saltiness of the waves, the coldness of the wind, the metallic tang of blood, the heat of Hunter's skin. Seaweed, wet stone. Illness.