She had been tempted by dark magick. She couldn't hold her head high and say that she had never even considered it, that following the Wiccan Rede and minding the threefold law had come easily. Morgan was only too aware of the humbling effect of temptation, of the realization that she had such a desire in her, to be brought to the point of having to fight it.
Was that because she was human or because she was Ciaran's daughter? How easily had Ciaran slipped into darkness all those years ago?
There was more of Ciaran in Morgan than she ever wanted anyone to know. The only way to overcome that side of her was to look hard at it and face it head-on. The moment she pretended she was better than Ciaran, more immune to temptation than he was, that was when she would fall.
Morgan had to stop for a moment. Ciaran. She rested her head in one hand and rubbed her forehead. She took a sip of juice.
He had died four years after Morgan had put a binding spell on him and called Hunter to strip him of his powers. Thinking back on that grotesque scene still made Morgan's stomach turn. It was never clean or easy to strip a witch of his or her powers. Fifteen years ago it had been more com-mon-now the New Charter stressed rehabilitation, reteaching, limited bindings. But to strip a witch of Ciaran's strength of his powers against his will-it was like watching a human being be turned inside out. Ciaran had never recovered from the trauma-not many witches did. For a blood witch to live without powers, without the blessing of that extra connection to the world, to oneself-most witches preferred death. Some members of the New Charter were only now trying to develop rituals and spells that could possibly restore at least some limited magick to a witch who had been stripped.
As for Ciaran-to say that he had never recovered was a gross understatement After he had been tried and sentenced and sent to Borach Mean, a sort of rest home in southern Ireland for witches without powers, he had simply ceased to be.
Morgan had gone to visit Ciaran only once, about eight months after he'd arrived at Borach Mean. The memory made her cringe, and she almost dropped the small bottle of rosewater she was holding. She'd had so many torn and confused feelings about what she'd done, about Ciaran himself. She recognized herself in him; she was undeniably drawn to him, her handsome, powerful father. He'd been charming and complimentary-when he'd wanted something. He'd loved her and been proud of her, had seen more potential in her than in any of his other children. But to truly earn his total love, Morgan would have had to step out of light and into darkness forever.
At Borach Mean the witch in charge had led Morgan to Ciaran, in an enclosed courtyard. The pale peach-colored stucco walls had sheltered plants of all kinds, each chosen for its scent or beauty. Herbs and roses all grew lushly, basking in the sun, releasing their scents to the warm air. They had all been spelled to be without power, of no use in any kind of spell. Just in case.
Her feet quiet on the dusty paving stones, Morgan had walked up to him, and he'd jumped: one sad effect of witches losing powers was that they could no longer sense people approaching them, and they ended up being startled frequently. It had taken him several moments to recognize her. She'd been shocked and sickened by his appearance. He'd lost an incredible amount of weight and looked sunken and hollow, even frail. His hair was almost completely white, where before it had been a rich, dark brown with just a few silver threads. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. Their hazel color, once so like Morgan's, had faded to a pale, mottled shade that seemed strangely lit from within.
"You." Morgan had felt rather than heard the word, his uncomprehending stare, the odd glitter of his almost colorless eyes.
"I'm sorry," Morgan had managed to choke out. Those pathetically inadequate words were supposed to cover so much-sorry you were so evil. Sorry you were my dad. Sorry you killed my mother. Sorry I helped bring you to this. Sorry that someone who could have been beautiful and strong and wise instead chose to be corrupt and destructive. And despite everything, sorry we couldn't have been the father and daughter that each of us would have wanted.
In the next moment Ciaran had lunged off his bench, fingers clenched like talons, and Morgan, startled, had taken a big step back. He had started spitting hateful words at her, words of revenge, accusation: "Traitor! Betrayer! Dog-witch! Nemesis! Foul, faithless daughter!" He had tried to throw spells at her, spells that, had he had his powers, would have flayed the flesh from her bones. As it was, his attempt to create magick only made him crumple in pain, retching, his fingers clawing at the light red dust on the ground.
"Ciaran, stop," Morgan had cried, raw pain squeezing her heart. And still he had spewed awful words at her. She had burst into tears, shaken by the horror of it all, and then, unbearably, Ciaran had started crying, too, as an attendant ran up. One witch had led Morgan inside, while two others had picked Ciaran up and taken him back to his room. The last thing Morgan had heard was his voice, a shattered, hollow croak, choking out her name.
Morgan could still smell the heated dust of Borach Mean, still feel the warm wind in her hair. Not long after that, she had moved to Ireland for good. Four years later, when she heard that Ciaran had died, she had gone to his funeral.
Moving the step stool, she continued to search for the ingredients she needed.
Ciaran's funeral had been in Scotland, where his wife, Grania, had lived with their three children: Kyle, Iona, and Killian. Her half siblings. Grania had finally divorced Ciaran after he'd been stripped. Morgan had heard about it from Killian, the only one of her half siblings she had any relationship with. He hadn't asked her to come, had advised against it, in fact, but she'd told him that she needed to and that he didn't have to let on who she was when she was there.
So she'd shown up at the small and ancient burial ground that the MacEwan Woodbanes had used for centuries. She'd worn a scarf and dark glasses to hide her hair and eyes. Almost two hundred people had been there: dark witches, come to mourn their betrayed and fallen leader, and others, his enemies, come to make sure he was dead at last. It had been very odd. Killian had spotted her but made no sign of recognition. Morgan hadn't known anyone else there except for a few council members, like Eoife MacNabb. Eoife also gave no sign of recognition.
Yet Grania, Ciaran's ex-wife, the one he had betrayed to become Morgan's mother's lover, had suddenly spotted her across the crowd and let loose a spine-cracking banshee howl.
"You!" she had cried. "How dare you show your face here? You, his bastard daughter!" Her face had contorted in resentment. "You and he deserved each other! How I wish you could join him in his grave right now!"
Everyone had turned to look. Morgan had stared at Grania, not saying a word, just knowing what she could have said. Grania had once perhaps been pretty, but thirty years of frustration and anger had twisted her face, made it seem lumpy and asymmetrical. Her hair was a harsh blond that ill suited her red, windburned face and pale, gooseberry eyes. She and Ciaran had had a rocky relationship. But clearly, even after all Ciaran had done to her, she still felt something for him, something that made it impossible to bear the reminder Morgan provided of his affair with Maeve.
Next to Grania, Killian had worn a pained expression-he hadn't joined in his mother's accusations, but neither would he defend Morgan against her. Killian mostly just took care of Killian. But Iona and Kyle-Ciaran's other children-had been another matter, Iona resembled Grania in looks-she was pale, dumpy, and had none of Ciaran's handsomeness, charisma, or grace. She'd stared at Morgan with plain hatred, but then her expression had turned to something else, something sly and knowing, almost like satisfaction: a smug, triumphant look that Morgan didn't understand. Could Iona have been glad that Ciaran was dead? He hadn't made her life easy, but she had professed to love him.
Then Kyle had surged toward her, hissing a spell. He looked more like Ciaran, but where Ciaran's features had been classical and chiseled, Kyle's were softer, more doughy. He had Ciaran's coloring, as Morgan did, and Killian.
His attack had been useless. Morgan had been initiated-she was far from an untrained teenager, unaware of her powers. Not only that, but she had already lost Hunter. Life had honed her, made her harder. Morgan, sitting there at her father's funeral, had been as hard and sharp and deadly as an athame. Kyle's power was undisciplined, unfocused, and Morgan had flicked his spells aside with a wave of her hand as if they were gnats.
This wasn't what she had come for. It gave her no pleasure to antagonize or hurt her father's other family. Sighing, Morgan had gathered her things and threaded her way through the crowd. She'd walked back toward the village and caught the next train out. Since then she'd heard about Kyle or Iona only seldom, usually from Killian, whom she continued to see maybe once a year or so, whenever she was in his area on business. Killian had changed little, despite a surprisingly early marriage and, at last count, three children. He was still happy-go-lucky, held no grudges, and managed to skip through life like an autumn leaf, tossed here and there by the wind.
Killian had told her of the political marriages of both Kyle and Iona, who had each chosen to ally themselves with powerful Woodbane families, Iona had taken her father's legacy seriously and had been studying intensively-though whether she could ever come close to filling Ciaran's shoes was unknown. Kyle had continued to soften, like an overripe cheese, and now it sounded as if he mostly played the role of country gentleman, managing extensive estates in western Scotland, supported by his wealthy wife.
Morgan sighed to herself. Okay, well, now she had managed to thoroughly depress herself. But at least she'd gathered everything she needed for the spell.
Back in the living room she lay down on the couch. It was dark outside now, and the rain had just started, Moira still wasn't back Morgan was tempted to scry for her daughter but instead sent a witch message to Moira, asking her where she was. Thankfully, Moira sent back that she was on her way home.
Rubbing her forehead again, Morgan lay in the shadowed room, trying to keep a lid on her anxiety. Moira was safe. She was coming home. And tomorrow Morgan and Keady would ask Christa, Katrina, and Will Fereston to join them in performing a spell to trace the black smoke from last night. Morgan was also considering taking the hex pouch and confronting Lilith with it, possibly making some ambiguous counterthreats. Maybe she could scare Lilith into leaving her alone.
Yawning, Morgan stretched, then went "oof!" as Bixby jumped up on her. Absently she stroked his orange fur, watching his eyes drift lazily shut. With Bixby purring comfortably on her stomach, Morgan gradually let herself be taken by sleep.
She and Hunter were making love. It felt oddly unfamiliar and at the same time as easy and regular as breathing. She could smell his skin, his hair, feel his short, white-blond bangs brush her forehead. It was as if he had been on a long trip and had just gotten home. Maybe this was one of their infrequent meetings: they were coming together in some city, somewhere, whenever they could.
"I thought you were going to settle down, come live with me," Morgan murmured against his shoulder, holding him tight. The sheer delicious joy of being with him, the feeling of connection, of rightness. This was where home was: wherever they could be together, for however long.
"I am," he whispered back, kissing her neck. "Just not as soon as I thought."
Morgan smiled against him, closing her eyes, relishing the moment, feeling gratitude for how much she loved him, that one person was able to love another person so completely. "Make it soon," she told him. "I need you with me."
"Soon," he promised. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long."
"I forgive you." Morgan sighed, kissing his shoulder.
He grinned at her, the edges of his eyes crinkling. His eyes were so green, so pure and full of light "Ta," he said. "And I forgive you."
"For what?" Morgan demanded, and the light faded from his eyes.
"For believing I've been dead all this while."
Morgan woke up crying.
Finnegan came over to the couch and gave her hand a tentative lick. Still sobbing, Morgan patted his head and tried to sit up, dislodging Bixby. Oh, Goddess, oh, Goddess. With a rough movement she pushed her hair out of her eyes. She coughed, tried to hold back a sob, and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
What time was it? Only five-twenty. She'd been asleep twenty minutes. Morgan quickly cast out her senses. Moira wasn't home yet but surely would be soon. Standing shakily, Morgan went to the hearth and threw some small logs sloppily onto the andirons. Her nerves were jangled by the dream, but kindling fire with magick was almost second nature by now. She huddled by the fire for several minutes, and she could feel the first tongues of flame trying to break through her intense coldness, the coldness that seemed to crack her bones.
What had that dream meant? she wondered miserably. She'd just had a startling, realistic dream about Hunter the same day someone had left a piece of spelled morganite on her garden path. There were no coincidences. In the days, weeks, months, years after his death, nightmarish Hunter dreams had haunted Morgan so that she'd often been afraid to sleep. How many times had she dreamed he was alive, only missing, not dead? How many times had she dreamed he had simply left her for another woman-then woken up with tears of happiness on her face because even his leaving her to be with someone else was infinitely preferable to his being dead?
But it had been ages since she'd dreamed of him so vividly, dreamed that he was still alive. This, the morganite, the face in the window, the black smoke-it was all adding up to something. Someone was haunting her with her past-someone who knew her well enough to know about Hunter. She needed to find out who, and how, and, most importantly, why.
Morgan looked down at her shaking hands almost with detachment, as if she were in the middle of a science experiment and this was a side effect. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She hadn't felt this way in twenty years. My world is no longer safe.