Cate Tiernan - Changeling

"He's unbelievably slippery," Hunter said, almost to himself.

"Excuse me?"

"He gets out of everything, like an eel," Hunter went on. "He got out of New York before the ritual, he got off scot-free the night you were sick. He careens through life, having a good time and not worrying about anyone else."

"I think that's a little harsh," I said. "Killian's—incredibly fun. He's irresponsible, but I don't think he's hurtful. There's no reason to think he's deliberately keeping Ciaran from meeting me."

Hunter looked at me, and all at once I remember other times sitting in my car, with our hands all over each other and our mouths joined fiercely. I swallowed and looked away.

"Give up the mission," Hunter said quietly.

"No. I'm getting it done."

"I don't think anyone can do it. It's too dangerous. I think Starlocket needs to disband and get out of town."

"Why don't they?" I asked.

He sighed. "Covens never do. When they're in danger, they stay together, no matter what. A coven never splits up if they can help it. Almost never," he paused, and I knew he was thinking about his parents. "Most covens feel they're less at risk if they stay together—the dark wave can't divide and conquer them."

Thinking about what Starlocket was facing, I once again felt the fear that I was sickeningly inadequate for this job. But somehow Hunter was thinking that, too, was enough to make me go forward.

"We still have nine days. This could still work," I said.

Hunter shook his head, looking out the car window at the darkness. "Want to go have something to eat?" he surprised me by saying.

"I already ate. I've been studying all afternoon, trying to get caught up."

"Deities? Correspondences? Basic forms of spell craft?"

"Uh, American history. For school."

Hunter nodded and looked away, and I felt that once again I had disappointed him somehow. Sometimes it seemed like everything I did was wrong.

"I flunked a test today, so I'm trying to catch up." Hoping to make Hunter smile, I said, "I'm so tempted to do a tàth meànma on my teacher so I wouldn't have to study the rest of the year."

His eyes flicked to me. "Morgan. Doing a tàth meànma with a regular human would likely leave that person an drooling vegetable."

"I was just kid—"

"Rules about things like that exist for a reason," he went on. "Witches have been using magick for thousands of years. Witches far more experienced than you have created these guidelines to benefit everyone. They saw what could happen if magick was unchecked."

"I was just kidding," I said stiffly. Sometimes Hunter seemed so inflexible and humorless. He wasn't, I knew, but he definitely seemed that way sometimes.

"Things are very clear for you, aren't they?" I asked almost wistfully. "Decisions seem clear, the right path is in front of you, you don't have to agonize over what's right or wrong."

He was silent for a few minutes. I cracked a window so we wouldn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning. "Is that how I seem to you?" he asked softly, his words barely reached me.

I nodded.

"It isn't true." His words were like velvety leaves, falling between us in the darkness. "Sometimes nothing is clear. Sometimes there is no right path, no correct decision. Sometimes I absolutely want what I shouldn't have and do what I shouldn't do. Sometimes I want to reach out, grab power from the air; and bend everything around me to my will." He gave a slight smile as I reacted to his words. "So far I haven't," he said more lightly. "Most of the time I do all right. But not always, and not without a struggle."

I'd never known this about him, and of course it made me fall even more in love with him than I already had. He had vulnerabilities. He wasn't perfect. Oh, Goddess, I wanted him so much.

"That's what magick is," he said. "Many choices, through your lifetime. How you are determines how you make them."

Wicca is full of pithy sayings like that. I was tempted to write them all down in a book and watch it become a bestseller: Chicken Soup for the Witch's Soul.

But I knew what he meant. I got it. I rubbed my hands down on my jeans. "I'll go call Killian."

"All right. Be careful. Call me if you need me. Don't do anything that feels unsafe."

I smiled wanly. "Yes, Dad."

In a move so fast I didn't see it, Hunter was across the seat, his arm around my back, holding me against him, hard. As I gasped in surprise, he slanted his mouth across mine and kissed me with a hunger and urgency that rocked me to the core. Yes, yes, yes. Just as suddenly he pulled back, leaving me wide-eyed and breathing fast and awash in a desire so strong, I didn't know what to do with it.

"I'm not your dad," he said, looking at me. Then he opened his door and got out. Agape, I watched him head to his own car, his long wool coat billowing around his legs like a cape. I was shaking, and my arms felt empty because he wasn't in them.

9. True Name

I am sorry for the delay in answering your last two letters. I have been ill. The summer grass sickness felled our community, and we have lost both Brother Sean and Brother Paul Marcus, God have mercy on their souls.

Myself, I owe my life to Nuala, who nursed me back from death not once but several times. In a babe's weak voice I bid that pawn of the devil to be gone. She laughed, her voice like a mountain stream. Surely you'll not think me evil, said she. Truly, we in Belwicket do more good than you, holed up in your Abbey of gloom.

Through my delirium I insisted she did the devils work. She bent close to me, so that her black hair fell across my chest. I a whisper she told me, "We do no work but that which should be done. My ancestors were gathering knowledge while your people were still fighting the Crusades."

I felt as if I were drowning. Today my head is clearer, and I do not know whether that interview took place. Remember me in your prayers, Brother Colin, I beg you.

—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, August 1768.

In American history I got a forty-seven on my test. I had never flunked a test before in my life, and my stomach clenched in a know of embarrassment.

"Morgan, can you see me after class, please?" said Mr. Powell. I nodded, my face flushing.

After class I waited until the other kids had left. Mr. Powell looked up at me, his wide grey eyes thoughtful behind gold wire glasses. "What happened with this test?" he jumped right in with no preamble.

"I forgot about it," I admitted.

He looked perplexed. "But even if you forget, you should have known enough to squeak by with a D. This test showed that you've learned virtually nothing since the winter holidays. I don't get it."

I was so hating this. "I just… I've just had a lot going on."

Once again he waited. I'd always liked Mr. Powell, even though I couldn't stand American history. I felt he always tried to make it interesting.

"Morgan, I'll be frank with you." I hate it when teachers say that. "You've always been an excellent student. But the other teachers and I have noticed a significant drop in your grades this past quarter." He paused, as if waiting for me to explain. I didn't know what to say. "Morgan, I've heard… rumors."

I blinked. "Rumors? About what?"

"About Wicca. Students having witchcraft circles, performing rites." He looked as uncomfortable as I felt. How in the world had he heard about that? Then I remembered the kids who had come to one or two of Cal's first circles. They'd left—it wasn't for them. I guessed they'd been talking about it.

"Do you know anything about it?" he pressed.

I felt like he was asking if I ever been a member of the Communist Party, if I was gay, if I was Jewish. "Um, well, I practice Wicca." Morgan takes a stand.

Mr. Powell looked nonplussed for a moment, then tapped his fingers on his desk, thinking. Finally he said, "Is this interfering in your schoolwork?"

"Yes," I almost whispered. Far from being surreal. I was smack-bad in the middle of harsh reality. I was going to flunk my junior year if I didn't get my act together.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"Study more?"

"Will that be enough?"

"Do extra credit?" I offered hopefully.

"Let me think about it." He shut his notebook, no longer seeming approachable.

"I'm sorry," I said, and he looked back at me.

"Morgan, you're only seventeen. You're extremely bright. You could do anything you want with your life. Don't screw up this young." He turned and walked out of the room, as if he was personally hurt by my poor grade. I felt awful. I was being slowly crushed by pressure from all sides. I just had to get through and do the best I could do. The problem was, that probably wouldn't be good enough. For anyone.

"Morgan!" Killian was waiting for me on his usual bench. But as I started toward him, I heard Mary K.'s voice behind me. My heart clutched suddenly—I didn't want them to meet. Quickly I turned my back to Killian and went to meet my sister.

"I didn't see you this morning." She grinned. "Let me guess. You're having a hard time getting up in the morning."

"You know me too well. How are things at Jaycee's?"

My sisters face clouded. "It's fine," she said unconvincingly. "Jacyee's got a new friend—you know her. Alisa Soto. And a new boyfriend—Micheal Pulaski."

I wasn't sure, but I thought Micheal was a sophomore. "She sounds busy."

"Yeah." Mary K. shook her head. "I guess I'm not really used to sharing Jaycee. And Alisa is into Wicca, and I don't want Jaycee to get into it." This said with an apologetic glance. I know she hated my involvement with Wicca. "And it's hard to watch her being all happy and lovey-dovey with Micheal after—"

"Hmmm," I said. "Yeah, I can see how that would bother you. Are you going to tell Jaycee how you feel about things?"

"No. It wouldn't do any good, and it'd just make me look weird and clingy. Anyway. We're going to the mall tonight 'cause it's Friday. Alisa isn't going, and Micheal has hockey practice."

"Good. You and Jaycee have a good time, then. And call me tomorrow, okay? Since I won't see you at school."

She nodded. "Okay. Thanks." She gave me one of her quick, sweet smiles, and I felt a rush of love for her. My sister.

After Mary K. had rejoined her friends, I walked over to Killian. Raven was practically in his lap. I wondered meanly how she avoided getting pneumonia, showing as much skin as she did. As I walked up, other members of Kithic drifted toward us.

"Hey!" Killian greeted me. "I found something I wanted to show you all. Do we have enough cars?"

And just that easily we were all swept into the Killian tide. Fifteen minutes later I realized we were almost to the old Methodist cemetery where our original coven, Cirrus, had first made magick. Where Cal and Hunter had had a showdown and I had put a holding spell in Hunter that he was probably still pissed about. What had Killian found here?

"We've been here before," Matt told him as we gathered at the edge of the property.

"You have? Then you know about power sink?" he looked disappointed.