Cate Tiernan - Changeling

“Is your mom like that, too?”

Killian gave a short bark of a laugh. “Goddess, no. Which is why Da inherited her coven, not her. She should be really strong, it’s in her blood, but she just pisses it all away, you know? Ma’s a housewife, a princess, really. Always complaining about her lot in life. I think she loved Da, but he loved her inheritance. Plus she was pregnant with my older brother when they got married.”

This picture of Ciaran’s life seemed so different that what I’d imagined, reading the romantic, agonized entries in Maeve’s BOS.

“Anyway—if he loved your ma, then maybe that explains why he couldn’t stand any of us.” There was a bewildered hurt in his voice that I didn’t think would’ve been there without all the Jell-O shots.

“I’m sorry Killian,” I said, and meant it. In his own way, he was another of Ciaran’s victims. Did everyone Ciaran touched pay a price for it? Did I have the same effect?

“Yeah well,” Killian gave a smile. “I don’t lose sleep over it. But I don’t want you to think you’re inheriting Mr. and Mrs. Lovely. Our family’s kind of different.” He gave what seemed like a bitter chuckle and leaned his head against the window again.

“But they’re still your family,” I said. “They’re yours. They belong to you and you to them. That’s something.” I wasn’t aware of the tense catch in my throat until the final word and didn’t turn around when I felt my half brother’s eyes on me.

“Stop here a minute,” he said.

“Here?” I looked out at the deserted road. We were in the middle of the woods; I couldn’t see any houses anywhere. Why did he want me to stop?

“Right here.” I stopped the car, and Killian leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. It was very gentle and grape flavored. “Now you belong to us, little sister.”

To avoid bursting into unexpected tears, I opened my door and got out, standing next to Das Boot in the dark night. Killian got out also, clumsily hanging on the door to avoid falling down. He started laughing at himself, and I smiled.

“Look, sis,” he said, gesturing at the sky. He looked at me with mischief glittering in his eyes. “Repeat after me: grenlach altair dan, buren nitha sentac.” Watching his face, I repeated the words, imitating his pronunciation as best I could. They sounded much better with his accent, but when he went on, I followed, feeling the thin coil of magick awakening in me. What were we doing?

He was watching the sky, and I was, too, not knowing what to look for. Then Killian waved his right hand in a smooth, sweeping gesture, oddly graceful, and I saw the heavy clouds overhead parting reluctantly to reveal the clear, star-speckled sky behind them. My mouth went slack as I realized what he had done.

“Now you.” He tapped my hand, and disbelieving, I moved it in a gentle circle before me. The clouds above me moved at my command, and with a broader movement I pushed the huge billows aside. All was clear above us. Weather magick was forbidden; it was considered an assault on nature and could have far-reaching, devastating effects. So I had just worked forbidden magick. And I had loved it.

My heart was pounding with excitement, and I looked at Killian, my eyes wide and shining. He laughed at my expression.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he said. “I gave you the stars. Good night, little sister.”

He started walking away, weaving slightly down the dark road.

“Good night? Where are you going?” I yelled. “This is the middle of nowhere!”

He turned and gave me a mock-severe look. “Everyplace is somewhere. I want to walk from here.” He turned and began to walk away.

“But—” I started at him, feeling something close to panic. “Killian! Wait!”

He turned again from the woods and looked at me. I took a deep breath. “I want to see Ciaran again. Can you ask him to come here, to see me?” There. It was out. I had said it.

For a moment Killian was silent, then his faint laughter floated to me just as a glowing sliver of moon appeared in the clouds’ clearing. “I’ll think about it,” he called back. Then he was gone, into the nothingness, and I was left alone in the cold, wondering whether I had actually succeeded in my mission—or whether Killian was just playing with me the same way he played with the clouds.

7. Witch Fire

Brother Thomas’s wound continues to fester. He is near delirium, and I fear he will lose the leg. Brother Colin, I must set this letter aside; Father Benedict has motioned to me. I will finish later.

The Lord works in mysterious ways. Father Benedict came to me in all gravity and voiced his concern about brother Thomas. He commanded me to go seek help from a village granny-wife. I asked if that was not like asking for help from the devil, to which he replied that God judges what is good or evil, not man.

In the village no granny-wife would see me, but Nuala Riordan come with me and is still with Brother Thomas. I tremble in fear for out very souls: she is chanting devil’s words over him, fixing him foul teas, applying seaweed poultices to his wound. To my mind it would be better if he died rather then have the devil heal him.

—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, June 1768.

I pulled into our dark driveway and felt Das Boot's big engine stop with a tremble. What a night. It had been incredible. Now I had to go in and steel myself to call Eoife, to tell her I had asked Killian to call Ciaran.

I was almost to my front door, keys in hand, when suddenly every bit of alcohol I had drunk flooded back into my brain with a whoosh. I staggered on the walk, dumbfounded. Oh my god. Killian's spell had worn off—what if it had worn off while I was driving? Now I was completely polluted again.

Inside the house, I dumped my stuff on the floor and literally clawed upstairs to my room. How much had I drunk? More than I ever had in my life. My stomach felt iffy, and I began to regret downing those whiskey sours.

Ten minutes later I lay in my bed with the spins, wanting to cry. The room was rocking back and forth as if I were on a ship, my stomach felt extremely fragile, and I had to get up to go to school in about six hours.

A moment after that I realized that the dull, heavy pounding I felt in my head was really someone banging on my front door. Jesus who could that be? I tried to focus my senses to cast them but couldn't concentrate. I was all over the place and started to panic. Then I heard the front door open—had I locked it? — and footsteps thudding up the stairs.

"Morgan!" Hunter yelled, right before he opened the door to my room. I looked at him stupidly while he stormed over to loom above me in my bed. "Where the hell have you been? I sent you a witch message, I've been calling your house. Do you think this is a game? Do you think—"

"I tried to call you earlier!" I said, my voice sounding thick. "Your phone was busy!" Then, with a sickening rush, my stomach gave notice that it was about to rebel. I stared at Hunter in horror, then lunged towards the bathroom I shared with Mary K. I just barely made it to the toilet before everything I had eaten and drunk that evening came back up.

Throwing up is the most disgusting thing I can think of. I flushed the toilet after the first time, but then I vomited again and again, my stomach muscled heaving. I felt the little blood vessels around my eyes burst and I wanted to cry but couldn't yet.

The only thing worse than barfing your guts up is doing it in front of someone you love desperately and are no longer with. I didn't hear him follow me, but my face crumpled with sobs when I felt Hunter's strong, gentle hands carefully lifting back my long hair. He twisted it away from my face while I was sick, and then when I sagged against the porcelain, he stepped away long enough to wet a washcloth with cold water. He stroked it over my face as I sat mortified, humiliated tears filling my eyes.

"Oh, God," I muttered in misery.

"Can you stand up?" His anger had dissipated. I nodded, and Hunter helped me over to the sink, where I brushed my teeth three times, feeling shaky and hollow. He wet the washcloth again, gently pressing it against my face and the back of my neck under my hair. It felt incredible.

Feeling completely defeated and beyond any hope of redeeming myself, I shuffled back to my room and collapsed on my bed. That was when I realized I was wearing only the Wonder Woman undies Bree had given me month ago as a joke and my dads threadbare MIT sweatshirt. Hunter was rooting through my dresser and finally found a long sleeved rugby shirt, that had seen too many washes. Businesslike, he came over, stripped off my sweatshirt, then popped the rugby shirt over my head, helping my arms find the sleeves.

Then he left my bedroom, and I slid sideways in my cool comfortable bed, knowing my humiliation was now complete. Hunter and I had made out seriously before, and we'd put our hands under each other's shirts, but he'd never seen me in nothing but my Wonder Woman undies.

Hunter came back into my room, holding a cold can of ginger ale. He poured it into a glass and helped me sit up again so I could sip it. It was nirvana. "Thank you." My voice sounded harsh, scraped.

"So you've been drinking a bit," he said unnecessarily, taking the glass from me and putting it on my bedside table.

I moaned pathetically, burying my face in my pillow. I still felt wretched but much, much better since my stomach had gotten rid of the poison in my system. The spins were gone, and the awful queasiness.

"Liquor dulls your senses," Hunter said mildly, stroking his hand down my hair, across my shoulder, down my side. I pulled the covers up past my waist. "It makes your magick go awry if you don't compensate for it. That's why most witches just have a little ceremonial wine, at most…"

I started weeping, and he shut up. He didn't have to tell he this—I didn't have to tell me this—I didn't want to drink again in my whole life. "I was with Killian tonight. He told me why Ciaran inherited his mother's coven and not her, but didn't get anything else. But I did ask him to ask Ciaran to come here." Then I burst into tears, holding my pillow, feeling like I was releasing days' worth of tension, fear, and worry. Hunter sat close to me, his hand on my neck, smoothing my hair. He didn't say shhh or anything to make me stop crying but just waited while I got it out.

Finally I slowed down to shudders and hiccups. I gazed up at him through tear-blurred eyes, thinking how incredible he looked, how attractive and appealing and sexy and magickal, thinking about how wonderful and caring and thoughtful he had been tonight. My heart was breaking all over again. And here I was, having just been horribly sick in front of him, having him see me in my joke underwear and nothing else, and knowing that I looked like a total bowser when I cried. It was too much to bear, and I closed my eyes against the onslaught of emotional anguish that rushed over me.

"Tell me more about tonight, love," he said gently, leaning over me.

Slowly I reported everything that Killian and I had talked about it. It seemed extremely thin. I was a failure. I talked going to the bar tonight, and everyone drinking, and Ethan falling of the wagon. I confessed to Killian's working weather magick, but not that I had done it also.