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  Cal stood with swift grace. "What the hell are you doing. I had never heard anyone speak to their mother this way, and I flinched. "What are you doing?" she countered. "I felt—what are you talking about?" "None of your business," he said, and Selene's eyes flashed with surprise.

  "We discussed this," she said in a low voice. "Mom, you need to leave," Cal said flatly. I was embarrassed and confused and also worried: no way did I want to get in between these two if they were fighting.

  "How—how did you know he was telling me anything I ventured. "I felt it," Selene said. "I felt him say Woodbane." This was really interesting. Creepy, but interesting. "Yes, you're Woodbane," I said, standing up. "I'm Woodbane, too. Is there a reason I shouldn't know your clan?" "Mom, I trust Morgan, and you need to trust me," Cal said thinly. "Now, will you get back to your work and leave us alone, or do I have to spell the door?"

  My lips curved into an involuntary smite, and a second later the tension on Selene's face broke. She breathed out "Very nice. Threaten your mother," she said tartly.

  "Hey, I'll make it so you'll never find your way up here again," Cal said, his hands on his hips. He was smiling now, but I felt he wasn't entirely joking. I thought of Selene walking in on us when we were rolling around on Cal's bed and secretly decided maybe spelling the door wouldn't be such a bad idea.

  "Forgive me," Selene said at last. "I'm sorry. It's just— Woodbanes have a terrible reputation. We're used to guarding our privacy fiercely. For a moment I forgot who Cal was talking to—and how extraordinary and trustworthy you are. I'm sorry."

  "It's okay," I said, and Selene turned around and left Quickly Cal stepped to the door and snapped the lock behind her, then traced several sigils and runes around the frame of the door with his fingers, muttering something. "Okay," he said. "That will keep her out." He sounded smug, and I smiled.

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  "Are you sure?"

  The answering look he gave me took my breath away. When he held out his hand, I went to him immediately, and next we tumbled onto his wide bed, the white comforter billowing cozily beneath us. For a long time we kissed and held each other, and I knew that I felt even closer to him than before. Each time we were alone together, we went a little further, and today I needed to feel close to him, needed to be comforted by his touch. Restlessly I pushed my hands under his shirt, against his smooth skin.

  I never wore a bra, having a distinct lack of need, and when his hands slipped under my shirt and unerringly found their way to my breasts, I almost cried out. One part of my mind hoped the spell on his door was really foolproof, the other part of my mind turned to tapioca. I pulled him tightly to me, feeling his desire, hearing his breathing quicken in my ear, amazed at how much I loved him. This time it was Cal who gradually slowed, who eased the fierceness of his kisses, who calmed his breathing and so made me calm mine. Apparently today would not be the day, either. I was both relieved and disappointed. After our breathing had more or less returned to normal, he stroked my hair away from my face and said, "I have something to show you." "Huh?" I said. But he was rolling off the bed, straightening his clothing.

  Then he held out his hand to me. "Come," he said, and I followed him without question.

  9. Secrets

  It's odd to be the son of a famous witch. Everyone watches you, from the time you can walk and talk—watches you for signs of genius or of mediocrity. You're never offstage.

  Mom raised me as she saw fit. She has plans for me, my future. I've never really discussed them with her, only listened to her tell me about them. Until recently, it never crossed my mind to disagree. It's flattering to have someone prepare you for greatness, sure of your ability to pull it off. Yet since my love came into my life, I fell differently. She questions things, she stands up for herself. She's so naive but so strong, too. She makes me want things I've never wanted before. I remember back in California-I was sixteen. Mom had started a coven. It was the usual smoke and mirrors-Mom using her circle's powers as sort of an energy boost so she wouldn't have to deplete her own-but then to our surprise she unearthed a very strong witch, a woman about twenty-five or so, who had no Page

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  idea of her bloodlines. During circles she blew us away. So mom asked me to get close to her. I did-it was surprisingly easy. The mom extinguished her during the Rite of Dubh Siol. It upset me, even though I'd known that it might happen. It won't come to that this time. I'll make sure. -Sgath

  As Cal led me down his outside steps to the back patio, the last flakes of falling snow brushed my face and landed on my hair. I held tightly to the iron rail; the metal stairs were slick with snow and ice. Cal offered me his hand at the bottom of the stair. I crunched onto the snow, and he began to lead me across the stone patio. We were both cold; our coats had been in the downstairs foyer, and we hadn't gotten them. I realized we were heading toward the pool. "Oh, God, you can't be thinking about going skinny dipping!" I said, only half joking. Cal laughed, throwing back his head as he led me past the big pool. "No. It's covered for the winter, underneath that snow. Of course, if you're willing ..."

  "I'm not," I said quickly. I had been the lone holdout from a group swim at our coven's second meeting.

  He laughed again, and then we were at the little building that served as the pool house. Built to look like a miniature version of the big house, its stone waits were covered with ' clinging ivy, brown in winter. Cal opened a door, and we stepped into one of the small dressing rooms. It was decorated luxuriously, with gold hooks, spare terry-cloth robes, and full-length mirrors.

  "What are we doing here?" I looked at my pale self in the mirror and made a face.

  "Patience," Cal teased, and opened another door that led to a bathroom, complete with shower stall and a rack of fluffy white towels. Now I was really confused.

  From his pocket Cal took a key ring, selected a key, and opened a small, locked closet The door swung open to reveal shallow shelves with toiletries and cleaning supplies.

  Cal stood back and gently swept his hands around the door frame, and I saw the faint glimmer of sigiis tracing its perimeter. He muttered some words that I couldn't understand, and then the shelves swung backward to reveal an opening about five feet high and maybe two feet wide. There was another room behind it.

  I raised my eyebrows at Cal. "You guys have a thing for hidden rooms," I said, thinking of his mother's concealed library in the main house. Cal grinned. "Of course. We're witches," he said, and ducked through the door. I followed, stepping through, then straightening cautiously on the other side.

  Cal stood there, expectant. "Help me light candles," he said, "so you can see better."

  I glanced around, my magesight immediately adjusting to the darkness, and found myself in a very small room, perhaps seven feet by seven feet There was one tiny, leaded-glass window set high up on the wall, beneath the unexpectedly high ceiling.

  Cal started lighting candles. I was about to say it wasn't necessary, I could see fine, but then I realized he wanted to create an effect. I looked around, and my gaze landed on the burnt wick of a thick cream-colored pillar candle. I need fire, I thought, then blinked as the wick burst into flame. It mesmerized me, and I leaned, timelost, into the wavering, triangular bloom of flame swaying seductively about the wick. I saw the wick shrivel and curl as the intense heat made the fibers contract and blacken, heard the roar of the victorious fire as it consumed the wick and surged upward in ecstasy. I felt the softening of the wax below as it sighed and acquiesced, melting and flowing into liquid.

  My eyes shining, I glanced up to see Cal staring at me almost in alarm. I swallowed, wondering if I had made one of those Wiccan faux pas I was so good at.

  "The fire," I murmured lamely in explanation. "It's pretty." "Light another one," he said, and I turned to the next candle and thought about fire, and an unseen spark of life jumped from me to the wick, where it burst into a bloom of light. He didn't have to encour
age me to do more. One by one, I lit the candles that lined the walls, covered the tiny bookcase, Page

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  dripped out of wine bottles, and guttered on top of plates thick with old wax. The room was now glowing, the hundreds of small flames lighting our skin, our hair, our eyes. In the middle of the floor was a single futon covered with a thin, soft, oriental rug. I sat on it, clasped my arms around my knees, and looked around me. Cal sat next to me. "So this is your secret clubhouse?" I asked, and he chuckled and put his arm around me.

  "Something like that," he agreed. "This is my sanctuary.” Now that I wasn't lighting candles, I had the time to be awestruck by my surroundings. Every square inch of watt and ceiling was painted with magickal symbols, only some of which I recognized. My brows came together as I tried to make out runes and marks of power.

  My mathematician's brain started ticking: Cal and Selene had moved here right before school started—the beginning of September. It was almost the end of November now: that left not quite three months. I turned to look at him. "How did you do all this in three months?” He gave a short laugh. "Three months? I did this in three weeks, before school started. Lots of late nights." "What do you do in here?" He smiled down at me. "Make magick," he said.

  "What about your room?"

  "The main house is full of my mother's vibrations, not to mention those of her coven members. My room is fine for most things; it's no problem for us to have circles there. But for my stuff alone, sensitive spells, spells needing a lot of energy, I come here." He looked around, and I wondered if he was remembering all the warm late-summer nights he had been in here, painting, making magick, making the walls vibrate with his energy. Bowls of charred incense littered the floor and the bookshelves, and the books of magick lined up behind them were dark and faded, looking immeasurably old. In one corner was an altar, made of a polished chunk of marble as big as a suitcase. It was draped with a purple velvet cloth and held candles, bowls of incense, Cal's athame, a vase of spidery hothouse orchids, and a Celtic cross. "This is what I wanted to show you," he said quietly, his arm warm across my back. "I've never shown this to anyone, although my mother knows it's here. I would never let any of the other Cirrus members see this room. It's too private."

  My eyes swept across the dense writing, picking out a f rune here and there. I had no idea how long we had been I sitting there, but I became aware that I was sweating. The I room was so small that just the heat of the candles was ' starting to make it too warm. It occurred to me that the candles were burning oxygen, and Practical Morgan looked for a vent. I couldn't see one, but that didn't mean anything. The room was so chaotic that it was hard to focus on any one thing.

  I realized in surprise that I wouldn't be comfortable making magick in this room. To me it was starting to seem claustrophobic, jangling, as if all my nerves were being subtly irritated. I noticed that my breath was coming faster. "You're my soul mate," Cal whispered. "Only you could handle being here. Someday we'll make magick here, together. We'll surprise everybody." I didn't know what to think of that. I was starting to feel distinctly ill at ease.

  "I think I'd better get home," I said, gathering my feet beneath me. "I don't want to be late."

  I knew it sounded lame, and I could sense Cal's slight withdrawal. I felt guilty for not sharing his enthusiasm. But I really needed to get out of there.

  "Of course," Cal said, standing and helping me to my feet One by one he blew out the candles, and I could hear the minuscule droplets of searing wax splatting against the walls. One candle at a time, the room grew darker, and although I could see perfectly, when the room was dark, it felt unbearable, its weight pressing in on me.

  Abruptly, not waiting for Cal, I stepped back through the small door, ducking so I wouldn't whack my head I didn't stop all I was outside In the blessedly frigid air. I breathed in and out several times, feeling my head dear, seeing my breath puff out like smoke.

  Cal followed me a moment later, pulling the pool-house door closed behind him.

  "Thank you for showing it to me," I said, sounding stiff and polite. He led me back to the house. My nerves felt raw as I collected my coat from the front foyer. Outside again, Cal walked me to my car. Page

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  "Thanks for coming over," he said, leaning in through the car window. I was chilled in the frosted air, and my breath puffed out as I remembered the things we had done In his bedroom and the sharp contrast with how I had felt in the pool house.

  "I'll talk to you later," I said, tilting my head up to kiss him. Then I was pulling out, my one headlight sweeping across a world seemingly made of ice. 10 Undercurrents

  October I came home from Ireland this week for Alwyn's initiation. It's hard to believe she's fourteen: she seems both younger, with her knobby knees and tall, coltish prettiness, and somehow also older—the wisdom in her eyes, life's pain etched on her face.

  I brought her a russet silk robe from Connemara. She plans to embroider stars and moons around it's neck and hem. Uncle Beck has carved her a beautiful wand and pounded in bits of malachite and bloodstone along the handle. I think she'll be pleased when she sees it.

  I know my parents would want to be here if they could, as they would have wanted to see my initiation and Linden's. I'm not sure if they're still alive. I can't sense them.

  Last year I met Dad's first wife and his other son at one of the big coven meetings in Scotland. They seemed very Woodbane: cold and hateful toward me. I had wondered if perhaps Dad still kept in tough with Selene—she's very beautiful, very magnetic. But his name seemed to set off a storm within them, which is not unreasonable, after all.

  I must go—Alwyn needs help in figuring the positions of the stars on Saturday night.

  -Giomanach

  That night, after the house was quiet, I lay in bed, thinking. I had been disturbed by Cal's secret room. It had been so intense, so strange. I didn't really like to think about what Cal had done to make the room have those kinds of vibrations, vibrations I could only begin to identify. And now I knew that Cal was Woodbane. So Hunter had been speaking the truth when he told me that. I understood why Cal and Selene would want to hide it—as Selene said, Woodbanes have a bad reputation in the Wiccan community, i But it bothered me that Cal had lied to me. And I couldn't help remembering how he had said that he and Selene were "traditional" Woodbanes. What exactly did that Page

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  mean?

  Sighing, I made a conscious effort to set aside thoughts about my day and immerse myself in Maeve's BOS. Almost every entry in this section was overwritten with an encoded one, and painstakingly I made my way through several days' worth. I already knew that my birth mother had met a witch from Scotland named Ciaran and had fallen in love with him. It was horrible to read about, knowing the whole story of her and Angus. So far it didn't seem like she had slept with Ciaran—but still, the feelings she had for him must have broken Angus's heart. Yet Maeve and Angus had ended up together. And they had me. At last I hid the book and the athame under my mattress. It was the night before Thanksgiving. Hunter's face rose once more before my eyes, and I shuddered. It would be hard, this year, to give thanks. Downstairs the next morning the kitchen was a crazed flurry: a turkey on the counter, boiling cranberries spitting deep pink flecks of lavalike sauce, Dad—entrusted with only the simplest tasks—busily polishing silver at the kitchen table. Mary K. was wiping the good china, my mother was bustling about, flinging salad, hunting for the packages of rolls, and wondering out loud where she had put her mother's best tablecloth. It was like every other Thanksgiving, comforting and familiar, yet this year I felt something lacking. I managed to slip outside without anyone noticing. The backyard was serene, a glittering world of icicles and snow, every surface blanketed, every color muted and bleached. What an odd, cold autumn it had been. Kneeling beneath the black oak, I made my own Thanksgiving offering, which I had planned almost a week ago, before the nig
htmarish events of the weekend. First I sprinkled birdseed on the snow, seeing how the smaller seeds pelted their way through the snow's crust but the large sunflower nuts rested on top. I hung a pinecone smeared with peanut butter from a branch. Then I put an acorn squash, a handful of oats, and a small group of pinecones at the base of the tree. I closed my eyes and concentrated. Then I quietly recited the Wiccan Rede, which I had learned by heart. I was about to go inside to tell Mom that for some reason, she had left the bags of rolls in the hall closet, when my senses prickled. My eyes popped open, and I looked around. Our yard is bordered on two sides with woods, a small parklike area that hadn't been developed yet I saw nothing, but my senses told me someone was near, someone was watching. Using my magesight, I peered into the woods, trying to see beyond the trees.

  I feel you. You are there, I thought with certainty, and then I blinked as a flash of darkness and pale, sun-colored hair whirled and disappeared from sight

  Hunter! Adrenaline flowed into my veins and I stood, taking a step toward the woods. Then I realized with a sick pang that it couldn't be him. He was dead, and Cal and I had killed him. It must have been Sky, with that hair. It was Sky, hiding in the woods outside my house, spying on me. Walking backward, scanning the area around me intently, I moved toward the house and stumbled up the back steps. Sky thought I had killed her cousin. Sky thought Cal was evil and so was I. Sky was planning to hurt me. I slipped into the steamy, fragrant kitchen, soundlessly muttering a spell of protection. "Morgan!" my mom exclaimed, making me jump. "There you are! I thought you were still in the shower. Have you seen the rolls?" "Uh—they're in the hall closet," I mumbled, then I picked up a silver-polishing cloth, sat down next to my dad, and I went to work. Thanksgiving was the usual: dry turkey, excellent cranberry sauce, salty stuffing, a pumpkin pie that was an odd, | pale shade but tasted great, soft, store-bought rolls, every-f one talking over each other. Aunt Eileen brought Paula. Aunt Margaret, Mom and Eileen's older sister, had finally broken down and started speaking to Aunt Eileen again, so she and her family joined us. She spent most of the evening silently but obviously stewing over the fact that her baby sister was going to roast in hell because she was gay. Uncle Michael, Margaret's husband, was jovial and good-natured with everyone; my four little cousins were bored and only wanted to watch TV; and Mary K. kept making faces at me behind our cousins' backs and giggling. All par for the course, I guessed.