Cate Tiernan - Changeling

"Tell me about growing up here," said Ciaran. "In America, without knowing your heritage."

I hesitated. I needed to share enough to make him feel that I trusted him, yet also protect myself from giving him any knowledge he could use against me. Then it occurred to me that he was so powerful, he could use anything against me and my being on guard was a waste of time.

"When I was growing up, I didn't know I was adopted. So I believed my heritage was Irish, all the way through. Catholic. All my relatives are, all the people at my church. I was just one more."

"Did you feel like you belonged?" Ciaran had a way of cutting into the heart of a matter, slicing through smoke and details to get at the very core of the meaning.

"No," I said softly, and took another sip of the tea. It was light and delicate. I took another sip.

"You wouldn't have fit in any better in my village," Killian broke in. His face looked rough and handsome in the dim light of the restaurant, his hair shot through with gold and wine-colored strands. He didn't have Ciaran's grace or sophistication or palpable power, but he was friendly and charming. "It was a whole town of village idiots."

I was startled into laughter, and he went on. "There wasn't a normal person among us. Every single soul was some odd character that other people had to watch out for. Old Sven Thorgard was a Vikroth who had settled in our town, Goddess knows why. The only magick he worked was on goats. Healing goats, finding goats, making goats fertile, increasing goats' milk."

"Really?" I laughed nervously. As hard as Killian was trying to entertain us, Ciaran was still watching us both with a suspicious, dark expression. I wondered whether that was his response to Killian or just evidence that he was actually planning to do away with both of us.

"Really," Killian said. "Goddess, he was weird. And Tacy Humbert—"

At the mention of that name, Ciaran broke into a smile and shook his head. He drank some wine and poured a tiny drop more in Killian's glass. I relaxed a bit.

"Tacy Humbert was love starved," Killian said in a loud whisper. "I mean starved. And she wasn't bad looking. But she was such a shrew that no one would take her out more than once. So she'd put love spells on the poor sap."

Ciaran chuckled. "Her aim wasn't perfect."

"Perfect!" Killian exclaimed. "Goddess, Da, do you remember the time she zapped old Floss? I had that dog climbing all over me for a week!"

We all laughed, but I thought I detected a warning glance exchanged between Ciaran and Killian. I wondered what Ciaran's problem was. I loved hearing about the very different life Killian had lived in Scotland. "Here, top us up, Da." Killian said, holding out his wineglass.

With narrowed eyes Ciaran filled it half full, then put the bottle on the other side of the table. Killian gave Ciaran a challenging look, but being ignored, he sighed and drained his glass.

"Were there many Woodbane in your village?" I asked.

Killian nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed and said, "Mostly Woodbanes. A couple of others. People on the outside of the village or who had married into families. My Ma's family has been there longer than folks can remember, and they're Woodbanes back to the beginning."

At the mention of Killian's mother, a shadow passed over Ciaran's face. He toyed with the last of his salad and didn't look at Killian.

"It must have been nice, being surrounded by people like you. Feeling like you fit in, like you belong," I said. "All celebrating the same holidays." Like Imbolic.

"It is nice to have an all-Woodbane community," Ciaran put in smoothly. "Particularly because of the commonly held view that most witches have about us. If it were up to them, we would be broken up and disbanded."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, Woodbanes are like any other cultural or ethnic group who has been forcibly dispersed. The Romany in Europe. The Native Indians here. The aboriginals in Australia. These were intact cultures that other cultures found threatening and so were killed, separated, dispersed, exiled. Within the Wiccan culture, Woodbanes have been cast in that role. The other clans fear us and so must destroy us."

"How do you fight that?" I asked.

"Any way I can," he said. "I protect myself and my own. I've joined with other Woodbanes who feel the same way."

"Amyranth," I said.

"Yes." His gaze rested on me for a moment.

"Tell me about them," I said, trying to sound casual. "What is it like to have an all-Woodbane coven?"

"It's powerful," said Ciaran. "It makes us feel less vulnerable. Like American pioneers, circling their wagons at night to keep intruders out."

"I see." I nodded, I hoped not too enthusiastically. Maybe this was my chance, I realized. Ciaran was opening up. Talking about Woodbane heritage seemed to animate him, to make him less suspicious. I remembered the sigil and thought if I could just touch his arm, in a loving, daughterly gesture, I might be able to quickly trace the sigil on his sleeve…

"I'm glad to hear you say that," I said confidently, shifting my chair closer. "Woodbanes are persecuted, so it's only natural that we'd try to protect ourselves, right?" I smiled, and Ciaran only regarded me curiously. It was impossible to read that expression. Did he trust me? Trying to keep my had from shaking, I lifted from my lap. I will touch his hand and say thank you, I thought. Thank you for telling me that I shouldn't be ashamed of my heritage. I reached out to touch him. "Th—"

"Excuse me for a moment," Ciaran broke in, rising. He headed towards the back of the restaurant, and Killian and I were left alone. I was stunned. I moved my hand back to my lap. What was he doing? Had I been too obvious? Was he calling Amyranth to get help in capturing me again?

Ciaran had left his suit jacket folded over the back of his chair, and my eyes lit on it. If I could put the watch sigil on his jacket… But Killian's bright gaze stopped me.

"Do you have plans for Imbolic?" I asked quickly.

Killian shrugged, giving me an almost amused expression. Had he seen what I was thinking? "I'll hook up with a coven somewhere. I love Imbolic. Maybe I could sit in with Kithic?"

"Maybe," I said evasively, wondering what Hunter's plans were for our celebration.

Ciaran was back in a few minutes and paid the check. I didn't sense any anger in his demeanor. He put on his jacket, and I regretted not tracing the sigil on it. What to do now? Should I press him for more information? Goddess, I was bad at this.

"Morgan, can you come to the house where Killian's staying?" Ciaran asked as we left Pepperino's. "It's the house of a friend who's currently out of the country. She's been kind enough to let him stay there."

As I looked at Ciaran, trying to remain calm, terror gripped at my insides and refused to let go. This was the perfect opportunity to learn more about their plans and to plant the watch sigil. Yet the thought of actually being with Ciaran and Killian was beyond terrifying. What if he's seen what I'd been trying? What if he was leading me back to the house to punish me for it?

"I got a glimpse of your remarkable powers in New York," he continued. "I'd like to see how much you know and teach you some of what I know. I'm impressed with your gifts, your strength, your bravery."

My glance flicked to Killian, who was carefully blank-faced. He could kill me, I thought with a sick certainty. He could finish the job he was planning to do in New York. I tried hard to fight my fear—wasn't this what I'd been praying for all those party nights with Killian? — but my terror was too strong. I could only think about getting out of there.

I was hopeless. As a secret agent, I was a fraud.

"Gosh, I really can't," I said lamely, hoping I didn't sound as terrified as I felt. "It's late, and I've, um, got school tomorrow." I tried to produce a yawn. "Can I take a raincheck?"

"Of course," said Ciaran smoothly. "Another time. You have my number."

Another time. I gulped and nodded. "Thanks for dessert."

13. Comfort

Brother Colin, I am sure you will be most distraught to learn that I have received a letter form her. The abbot of course reads my post, and I cannot imagine he would let a missive from her pass, so perhaps the letter was spelled. (Do not think this to be my insensate fear—I am quite certain that the villagers of Barra Head had powers beyond what I as mortal can comprehend.)

Naturally once I realized who it was from, I turned it over to Father Edmund and have since been praying in the chapel. But I could not stop myself from reading it, Brother Colin.

She wrote that she has been living in Ireland, in a hamlet called Ballynigel, and that she was delivered of a girl at summer's end last year. The child, she says, is sturdy and bright.

I shall pray to God to forgive her sins, as I pray for forgiveness of mine.

She intends to return to Barra Head. I do not know why she continues to torment me. I do not know what to think and fear a return of the brain fever that so weakened me two years ago.

Pray for me, Brother Colin, as I do for you.

—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, October 1770.

"All right, class," said Mr. Alban. "Before we start on 'The Nun's Tale, I'd like you all to hand in your compositions. Make sure your name is on them."

I stared at my English teacher in horror as my classmates began to bustle purposefully, pulling out their compositions. Oh, no! Not again! I knew about this damn composition! I'd picked out my topic and done some preliminary research! But it wasn't due until… I quickly checked my homework log. Until today, Monday.

I almost broke a pencil in frustration as everyone else around me handed up their papers and I had nothing to hand in. I was seriously screwing up. I had zero excuse except that my life seemed to be about more important things lately—like life or death. Not Chaucer, not compositions, not trig homework. But actual life, the life I would be leading from now on. I had five days until Imbolic.

The rest of the day passed in a drone. When the final bell rang, I went outside and collapsed in the Killian-less stone bench, feeling very depressed. I was confused; it was hard to focus; I felt like a horse was standing on my chest. I couldn't even summon the mental or physical energy to go home and meditate, which usually pulled all my pieces together.

"You look beat," Bree said, sitting next to me.

I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.

"Well, Robbie and I are going to Practical Magick," she said. "Want to come?"

"I can't," I said. "I should go home and study." Actually, I would have loved to have gone, but it seemed likely that Ciaran was keeping tabs on my. I didn't want him to have chance to suspect I was working with Alyce on anything. There was only a handful of days before Imbolic. I felt the clock ticking even as I sat there,

As the Kithic members drifted off, I felt sad and alone. My miserable failure last night weighed heavily on my conscience. If I had the guts to go with Ciaran, who knows—I might be done with the mission by now. I had spend the entire day kicking myself, yet the memory of my terror was so real. I understood why I had refused to go; I just wished that somehow I could conquer my fear.