"That's what they tell me."
"Who is your teacher? The Seeker?"
"Well, not really formally. It's hard because I also have regular school. And my parents don't feel comfortable with the whole Wicca thing," I'm surprised myself by saying. Ciaran was easy to confide in. I had to be on guard against that. Was he already spelling me, trying to get inside my mind?
"I can't believe any child of mine has to be concerned about such banalities," he said.
I sat there, trying not to look stupid. Despite having known he was coming, I felt ridiculously unprepared to deal with him, to have a conversation with him. How could I have a normal conversation with the man who had killed my mother, had tried to kill me? Only my sense of obligation to Starlocket and my affection for Alyce kept me from giving into fear and getting the hell out of here. Did he already know I was working for the council? He knew Hunter and I were—had been—going out. Was he just playing with me before he struck me down?
"You should have grown up surrounded by gifted teachers who would have helped you develop your natural powers," he went on. "You should have grown up among the moors and rocks and winds of Scotland. You'd be unmatchable." He looked regretful. "You should have grown up with me and Maeve." A spasm of pain crossed his face.
He was unbelievable. He had been married, had seduced my mother, then followed her to America and killed her because she wouldn't be with him. And Amyranth had no doubt been responsible for Belwicket's destruction! And now he was all upset because we hadn't been a happy little family. I looked down at my tea, numb with disbelief.
"I've asked people about you," he went on, and I almost choked on my lemon Danish. "I've found out surprisingly little. Just that Cal Blaire sniffed you out, revealed you to yourself, and then he and Selene tried to seize your power." His eyes were steady on my face. "And you resisted them. Did you help kill them?"
Blood drained from my face, and I felt almost faint for a moment. My anger fled. I had intended to control this interview, to lead him where I needed him to go, to get information out of him. What a naive plan that had been. "Yes," I whispered, looking out the lace-curtained window to the street outside. "I didn't meant to. But I had to stop them. They wanted to kill me."
"Just like you tried to stop me in Manhattan," he said. "Would you have killed me if you could? When you were on the table, knowing your powers were about to be taken from you?"
What kind of question was that? Would I kill him to save myself, when he had killed my mother, when I had never known him as a father? "Yes," I said, resenting his easy manner. "I would have killed you."
Ciaran looked at me. "Yes," he said. "I think you would. You're strong. Strong not only in your powers, but in yourself. There isn't anything weak about you. You're strong enough to do what needs to be done."
If he had been anyone else I would have blurted out often I felt afraid, weak, incapable, inadequate. But we weren't really having a father-daughter chat. I needed to give himself up to me.
"Do you still want to kill me, Morgan?" he asked, and the pull of his question felt like a tide, drawing me out to sea.
Resist, I thought. How to answer? "I don't know," I said finally. "I know I can't."
"That's an honest answer," he said. "It's all right. You must do what you can to protect, not only yourself, but your beliefs, your way of life, your heritage. Your birthright. And it's amazing how often others want to impinge on these things."
I nodded.
He looked at me speculatively, as if wondering if I were genuine. I tried to relax, but couldn't. My palms were sweating, and I rubbed them against my skirt. This was Ciaran, and as much as I wanted to take him apart and throw away the pieces, there was a part of me that still wanted to run in his arms. Father. How sick was that?
"Have you met witches who think badly of Woodbane?" he asked.
"Yes."
"How does that make you feel?" He poured more hot water into his cup and dipped in the mesh ball filled with tea leaves again.
"Angry," I said. "Embarrassed. Frustrated."
"Yes, any witch who can trace his or her heritage back to one of the Seven Great Clans has been given a gift. It's wrong to be ashamed of being Woodbane or to deny your heritage."
"If only I knew more about it," I said leaning forward. "I know I'm Woodbane. I know Maeve was from Belwicket, and they were a certain kind of Woodbane. I know you're Woodbane, and you're different. Your coven in New York was totally different from the covens I've seen. I read things in books, and it's like everyone blames the Woodbanes for everything. I hate it." I spoke more vehemently than I had intended to, and when Ciaran smiled at me, I was startled at how much it pleased me.
"Yes," he said, looking at me. "I hate it, too." He shook his head, watching me. "I'm proud of you, my youngest, unknown daughter. I'm proud of your power, your sensibility, and your intelligence. I deeply regret that I didn't see you grow up, but I'm glad I have the opportunity to know you now." He took a sip of his tea while I tried to get a handle on my emotions.
"But do I know you?" he murmured, almost to himself. "I think I don't."
My breath stopped as I wondered what he meant, if he was about to accuse me of trying to trap him. What could he do here, in a tea shop?
"But I want to change that," he said.
That night I found out that if you lie with your head flat on the open page of a textbook, you don't necessarily absorb the knowledge any faster than if you read the words. God, it was impossible to concentrate on this stuff! What the hell difference did it make what general did what in the Revolutionary War? None of this made any difference in my life whatsoever. All it did was prove I could memorize, and so what?
The phone startled me from my history-induced coma, and I could tell immediately it wasn't Hunter. Eoife? I had already called her to tell her about my tea with Ciaran, so it seemed unlikely she would call again so soon. Killian? Oh, God, could I handle another marathon Killian party?
"Morgan?" The voice on the other end greeted me before I could even say hello, and it took me a second to place it.
"Ciaran?"
"Right. Listen, Killian and I are having dinner at a place called Pepperino's. Would you like to come join us?"
My head felt foggy from too much studying. I tried to make sense of Ciaran's invitation. Dinner with my murderous father and unpredictable, charming half brother? Could I think of a better way to spend my Sunday night? "Sure, I'd love to. I'll be right there."
Pepperino's is an upscale Italian restaurant in downtown Widow's Vale. It has tuxedoed waiters, white tablecloths, and candles, and the food is incredible. My parents went there sometimes for a birthday or an anniversary. It was almost empty since it was late Sunday night, and the maitre d' led me to Ciaran's table.
"Morgan, welcome," said Ciaran, standing up. He shot Killian a glance, and Killian also stood up. I smiled at them both and sat down.
"We've just ordered," said Ciaran. "Tell me what you'd like. The waiter says the calamari ravioli is superb."
"Oh, no thanks," I said. "I already ate. Maybe just some tea?"
When the waiter came, Ciaran ordered me a cup of Darjeeling and a slice of mocha cheesecake. I watched him, thinking how incredibly different he was from the father I had grown up with—my real dad. My real dad was sweet, vague, and slow to anger. My mom usually takes care of the money, the insurance, anything complicated. Ciaran seemed like he was always in charge, always knew the answer, could always come through. It would have been quite different, growing up with him. Not better, I knew, though we did seem to have a connection. Just different.