Night's Child Read online

  "Good Lord," the doctor breathed.

  Irene was crying now, kissing Amy's hand, and Andrew was sniffing, his worn face crinkled into a leathery smile. Morgan finished her tea and got to her feet. Very quietly she picked up her canvas bag. It seemed to weigh three times as much as it had that morning. And she still had an hour's drive to Wicklow. She was suffused with the happiness that always came from healing, an intense feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. But the happiness was tinged bittersweet, as it had been every time she'd healed someone since Colm's death-because when her husband had needed her most, she hadn't been there to heal him.

  She was almost out the door when Irene noticed she was leaving. "Wait!" she cried, and hurried over to Morgan. Her face was wet with tears, her smile seeming like a rainbow. "I don't know what you did," she said in barely more than a whisper. "I told the nurses you were praying for her. But it's a miracle you've done here, and as long as I live, I'll never be able to thank you enough."

  Morgan gave her a brief hug. "Amy getting better is all the thanks I need." * * *

  "You're working too hard, lass," Katrina Byrne said as Morgan came up the front walk.

  Morgan shifted her heavy tote to her other shoulder. It was almost five o'clock. Luckily she'd had the foresight to ask her mother-in-law to be here this afternoon in case she didn't get back before dinner.

  "Hi. What are you doing? Pulling up the carrots? Is Moira home?"

  "No, she's not back yet," said Katrina, sitting back stiffly on her little stool. "I would have expected her by now. How was your day?"

  "Hard. But in the end, good. The girl opened her eyes, and she recognized her mum."

  "Good." Katrina's brown eyes looked her up and down. The older woman was heavyset, more so now than when Morgan had met her, so long ago. Katrina and her husband, Pawel, and her sister, Susan Best, had been among the handful of survivors of the original Belwicket, on the western coast of Ireland. Morgan had known her first as the temporary leader of Belwicket, then as her mother-in-law, and the two women had an understated closeness-especially now that they were both widows.

  "You're all in, Morgan," Katrina said.

  "I'm beat," Morgan agreed. "I need a hot bath and a sit-down."

  "Sit down for just a moment here." Katrina pointed with her dirt-crusted trowel at the low stone wall that bordered Morgan's front yard. Morgan lowered her bag to the damp grass and rested on the cool stones. The afternoon light was rapidly fading, but the last pale rays of sunlight shone on Katrina's gray hair, twisted up into a bun in back. She wore brown cords and a brown sweater she'd knit herself, before her arthritis had gotten too bad.

  "Where's Moira, then?" Morgan asked, looking up the narrow country road as if she expected to see her daughter running down it.

  "Don't know," Katrina said, picking up a three-pronged hand rake and scraping it among the carrots. "With her gang."

  Morgan smiled to herself: Moira's "gang" consisted of her friends Tess and Vita. She let out a deep breath, hoping she would have the energy to get back up when she needed to. Lately it seemed she'd been working harder than ever. She was often gone, leaving Katrina to come look after Moira, though Moira had started protesting that she could stay by herself. Last week Katrina had accused her of running away from grief, and Morgan hadn't denied it. It was just too painful to be here sometimes-to see the woodwork that Colm had painted, the garden he'd helped her create. She felt his loss a thousand times a day here. In a hotel in some unknown city, with work to distract her, it was easier to bear. Now she waited for her outspoken mother-in-law- her friend-to get something off her chest.

  "When were you thinking of accepting the role of high priestess?" Katrina asked bluntly. Her trowel moved slowly through the rich black soil. She looked focused on her gardening, but Morgan knew better.

  She let out a deep breath. "I was thinking maybe next spring. Imbolc. Moira's to be initiated on Beltane, and it would be lovely for me to lead it."

  "Aye," agreed Katrina. "So maybe you need to cut back on your traveling and start preparing more to be high priestess." She looked up at Morgan shrewdly. "Meaning you'll have to be home more."

  Morgan pressed her lips together. It was pointless to pretend not to know what Katrina was talking about. She scraped the toe of her shoe against a clump of grass. "It's hard being here."

  "Hard things have to be faced, Morgan. You've a daughter here who needs you. You've missed two of the last five circles. And not least, your garden's going to hell." Katrina pulled up a group of late carrots, and Morgan was startled to see that below their lush green tops, their roots were gnarled, twisted, and half rotted away.

  "What... ?"

  Katrina clawed her hand rake through the dirt: The whole row of carrots was rotten. Morgan and Katrina's eyes met.

  "You did all the usual spells, of course," Katrina said.

  "Of course. I've never had anything like this." Morgan knelt down and took the small rake from Katrina. She dug through the soil, pulling up the ruined carrots, then went deeper. In a minute she had found it: a small pouch of sodden, dirt-stained leather, tied at the top with string. Morgan scratched runes of protection quickly around her, then untied the string. A piece of slate fell out, covered with sigils-magickal symbols that worked spells. Some of them Morgan didn't know, but she recognized a few, for general destruction (plants), for the attraction of darkness (also for plants), and for the halting of growth (modified to pertain to plants).

  "Oh my God," she breathed, sitting back on her heels. It had been so long since anyone had wished her harm-a lifetime ago. To find this in her own garden ... it was unbelievable. "What are you thinking?" Katrina asked.

  Morgan paused, considering. "I really can't imagine who would do this," she said. "No one in our coven works magick to harm. . . ." She trailed off as something occurred to her. "Of course, there is another coven whose members don't share our respect for what's right."

  "Ealltuinn," Katrina said.

  Morgan nodded. "I never would have thought they'd do something like this," she murmured, almost to herself. It wasn't unusual for more than one coven to be in a certain area; sometimes they coexisted peacefully, sometimes less so. Belwicket had been in the town of Wicklow, right outside Cobh, for over twenty years now; they were a Woodbane coven who had renounced dark magick. Ealltuinn, a mixed coven, had started in Hewick, a small town slightly to the north, about eight years ago. There hadn't been any problems until about two years ago, when Lilith Delaney had become high priestess of Ealltuinn.

  Morgan had never liked Lilith-she was one of those witches who always pushed things a little too far and didn't understand why it was a problem. But it was more that she'd work minor spells out of self-interest, nothing dangerous, so Morgan hadn't been too concerned. She'd spoken with Lilith several times, warned her that she didn't agree with the direction Lilith was taking her coven in, and Lilith hadn't been too pleased with that. But would she really have shown her anger like this? By ruining Morgan's garden? The spell was minor, petty, but it was working harm against someone-which was always wrong.

  Morgan looked around her yard, distressed. This home had always been a haven for her. Suddenly she felt isolated and vulnerable in a way she hadn't for decades. A ruined garden wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Morgan, but that someone was actively working to harm her . . . She didn't believe Lilith would want to hurt her-but who else could it be?

  "When was the last time you saw Lilith Delaney?" Katrina asked, as if sensing Morgan's thoughts.

  Morgan thought back. "Two weeks ago, in Margath's Faire. Hartwell Moss and I were there, having a cup after shopping. Lilith was sitting with another member of Ealltuinn, and they looked deep into something together."

  "Do they know where the power leys are?" Katrina asked, her eyes narrowing.

  Morgan felt a flash of fear. Why was Katrina asking that- was she worried that Ealltuinn was more of a threat than Morgan had thought? "Not that I know of," Morgan repli
ed, her throat feeling tight. "Now that I think of it, though, every once in a while I see someone from Ealltuinn out on the headlands, crisscrossing them, like they're looking for something."

  The two women looked at each other. In fact, Morgan's very house was built on an ancient power ley, or line, as was Katrina's house and the old grocery store that she and Pawel had run in the early days of their marriage. The building was now empty, and Belwicket held many of their circles there. But Ealltuinn must have heard the legends of the power leys, the unseen and often unfelt ancient lines of energy and magick that crisscrossed the earth, like rubber bands wrapped around a tennis ball. Those who worked magick on or around a power ley saw their powers increased. The town where Morgan had grown up in America, Widow's Vale, had had a power ley also, in an old Methodist cemetery. Morgan dropped the rotten carrots in disgust and retied the little pouch. She would have to dismantle it, purify the pieces of it with salt, and bury it down by the sea, where the sand and salt water would further dissolve its negative energy

  "Morgan, I'm concerned about Ealltuinn," Katrina said seriously. "With Lilith Delaney at their head, what if they become bolder in their darkness? I'll be honest with you, lass: I wish I were strong enough to take them on. I've got some righteous anger to show them. But I'm not. I'm fine, but I'm not you."

  "I don't know," Morgan said. "It's been a long time. . . . I'm different now."

  "Morgan, you could still pull the moon from the sky. In you is the combined strength of Maeve Riordan and Ciaran MacEwan, Goddess have mercy on them both. You alone are powerful enough to stop Lilith in her tracks, to keep Belwicket safe. Twenty years ago you saved your town from a dark wave-you stopped a dark wave when no one dreamed it was possible."

  "It was Daniel Niall and another witch," Morgan corrected her. "I just helped. And besides, this is hardly another dark wave."

  Katrina gave her a maternal look, then brushed her hands off on her corduroy pants. "It's getting late," she said. "I'd best be getting back. You know, sometimes I still expect Pawel to come home to tea, and he's been gone six years."

  "I know what you mean," Morgan said, her eyes shadowed.

  "Think on what I said, lass," Katrina said, getting stiffly to her feet. She gave Morgan a quick kiss, then let herself out the garden gate and headed back up the narrow road to her own cottage, less than a quarter mile away.

  For another minute Morgan sat in her garden, lookingdown at the row of spoiled carrots. She was torn between feeling that Katrina had to be overreacting and her own instinct to believe the worst after everything she had experienced in Widow's Vale. But that was all far in her past, and she hadn't seen anyone practice true dark magick in ages. Of course, she also hadn't seen anyone use magick for harm at all, even on such a small scale as hurting some vegetables. But Lilith was a small-minded person who obviously couldn't handle having someone tell her she was wrong.

  Morgan looked up at the sky, realizing that it was getting dark and Moira wasn't home yet. It wasn't that unusual for her to be late, though usually she called. Maybe Morgan was being foolish, but this little pouch had really spooked her, and she wanted her daughter home now.

  Six twenty-two. Exactly two minutes since the last time she'd looked.

  Six twenty-two! Moira was two and half hours late and no doubt off with her friends somewhere. Morgan was sure no harm had come to her daughter. After all, Wicklow wasn't exactly Los Angeles or New York. Everybody tended to know everybody-it was hard to get away with wrongdoing or mischief.

  Trying not to look at the clock, Morgan moved methodically around the small living room, kicking the rug back into place, straightening the afghan draped over Colm's leather chair. Her fingers lingered on the cool leather and she swallowed, hit once again with the pain of missing him. Sometimes Morgan would get through part of a day with moments of amusement or joy, and she would grow hopeful about starting to heal. Then, with no warning, something would remind her of Colm's laugh, his voice, his warm, reassuring presence, and it was like a physical blow, leaving Morgan gasping with loss.

  Even Moira being so late would have seemed okay if Colm were here with her. He would have been calm and matter-of- fact, and when Moira came home, he would have known exactly what to say. He and Moira were so much alike, both outgoing and cheerful, friendly and affectionate. Morgan had always been on the shyer side, a bit more insecure, needing to have the t's crossed and the fs dotted. Since Colm had died, it seemed that Morgan had developed a gift for saying the wrong thing to Moira, for flying off the handle, for botching what should have been the time for mother and daughter to grow closer. If she were home enough for them to grow closer, she thought with a pang of guilt. She had to quit running. Hard things had to be faced, as Katrina said. Still, how many hard things was she going to have to face in this life? Too many, so far.

  Morgan glanced around the already tidy room and caught sight of her reflection in the windowpane, the dark night outside turning the glass into a mirror. Was that her? In the window Morgan looked sad and alone, young and slightly worried. Her hair was still brown and straight, parted in the middle and worn a few inches below her shoulders. It had been much longer in high school.

  Morgan gazed solemnly at the window Morgan, then froze when a second face suddenly appeared beside hers. She startled and whirled to look behind her, but she was alone. Eyes wide, heart already thumping with the first rush of adrenaline, Morgan looked closer at the window-was the person outside? She looked around-her dog, Finnegan, was sleeping by the fireplace. Casting her senses told her she was alone, inside the house and out. But next to her own reflection was a thin, ghostly face, with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes, but so pale and blurry that she had no clue who it could be. She stared for another ten seconds, trying to make out the person, but as she looked, the image became even less distinct and then faded completely.

  Goddess, Morgan thought, sitting abruptly at the table. She realized her hands were shaking and her heart beating erratically. Goddess. What had that been? Visions were strong magick. Where had that come from? What did it mean? Had it been just a glamour, thrown on the window by . . . whom? Or something darker, more serious? Feeling prickly anxiety creeping up her back, Morgan took a few breaths and tried to calm down. This, on top of the hex she'd found in the garden. What if Katrina was right? What if Lilith and Ealltuinn were up to something? Morgan hadn't experienced anything like these things in so long.

  Standing up, Morgan walked back and forth in the living room, casting her senses strongly. She felt nothing except the sleeping aura of Finnegan, the deeply sleeping aura of Bixby, her cat, and silence. Outside she felt nothing except the occasional bird or bat or field mouse, vole, or rabbit, skittering here and there. She felt completely rattled, shaken, and afraid in a way she hadn't felt in years. Was this part of missing Colm? Feeling afraid and alone? But the pouch and the image in the window-they were real and definitely involved magick. Dark magick. Morgan shivered. And where is Moira?

  Morgan looked at Moira's cold, untouched dinner on the worn wooden table and felt a sudden surge of anxiety. Even though moments ago she'd been certain Moira was fine, now she needed her daughter home, needed to see her face, to know she was all right. She even felt an impulse to scry for her but knew that it wasn't right to abuse Moira's trust and use magick to spy on her daughter. Still, if much more time passed, she might have to push that boundary.

  Try to calm down. Worrying never helped anything, that was what Colm always said. If you can change things, change them, but don't waste time worrying about things you can't change. Tomorrow she would talk to Katrina, tell her about the face in the window. For now, there wasn't much she could do. Sighing, Morgan began to stack dishes in the sink. She couldn't help turning around every few seconds to glance at the windows. Conveniently, she could see the whole downstairs from the small kitchen tucked into one corner. A dark blue curtain covered the doorway to the pantry. Off the fireplace was a small, tacked-on room for Wicca work. Upstairs were thr
ee tiny bedrooms and one antiquated bathroom. When Colm was alive, Morgan had chafed at the smallness of their cottage-he'd seemed to fill the place with his breadth and his laugh and his steady presence. Along with Moira, two dogs (though Seamus was buried in the north field now), two cats (Dagda was now also buried in the north field), and Morgan, the cottage had almost seemed to split at the seams.

  Now there were days when Moira was at school and the cottage felt overwhelmingly large, empty, and quiet. On those days Morgan threw open the shutters to let in more light, swept the floor vigorously both to clean and to stir up energy, and sang loudly as she went about the day's chores. But when her voice was silent, so was the cottage, and so was her heart. That was when she looked for an opportunity to go somewhere, work someplace else, for just a while.

  What a horrible irony. Morgan traveled constantly on business-her work as a healer had grown steadily in the last ten years, and she was away at least every month. Colm had been a midlevel chemical researcher for a lab in Cork and never needed to travel or work late or miss vacations. The one time his company had decided to send him on a business trip to London, he'd been killed in a car accident on his second day there. Morgan, the powerful witch, the healer, had not been able to heal or help or be with her husband when he died. Now she wondered if anything would ever feel normal again, if the gaping hole left in her life could possibly be filled.

  She had to be strong for Moira-and for the rest of the coven, too. But there were times, sitting crying on the floor in her shower, when she wished with all her heart that she was a teenager again, home in Widow's Vale, and that she could come out of the shower and see her adoptive mother and have everything be all right.

  Her adoptive parents, Sean and Mary Grace Rowlands, still lived in Widow's Vale. They'd been crushed when she'd moved to Ireland-especially since it had been clear she was going to fulfill her heritage as a blood witch of Belwicket, her birth mother's ancestral clan. But now they were getting older. How much longer would she have them? She hadn't been to America in ten months. Morgan's younger sister, Mary K., had married two years ago and was now expecting twins at the age of thirty-four. Morgan would have loved to have been closer to her during this exciting time, to be more involved in her family's lives. But they were there, and she was here. This was the life she'd made for herself.