My mouth moved, but I couldn’t form words. Then why are you so scared of me? I thought, sending him the message.
I wondered if I could just think his true name—if that would be enough to control him. I was reluctant to try. If he even knew it was in my mind, I’d be toast. I had already made one terrible, possibly fatal mistake. Anything I did from now on would have to be a sure step.
Foggily, my eyes went to Ciaran’s face. He was talking to me in a low tone, and I struggled to understand what he was saying. “Would it be so terrible to join me? Am I such a monster? I’m your father. I could teach you things that would make you cry at their beauty, their perfection. Do you really want to throw this opportunity away?”
My eyes were focused on him as he spoke. Think, think, I told myself dreamily. Think or he’ll win. A binding spell was one of the odder spells one could be under. There were different levels of it—from simply being unable to harm another being to being virtually comatose. The way I felt now was like being wrapped in many layers of tissue: hard to get out of, yet made of thin, tearable layers. I also knew that keeping me in this spell required Ciaran’s concentration. One could work a binding spell from a distance, but he hadn’t had time for that. This was a quick one, hastily put together and requiring his continued effort.
If I broke his concentration, if he for one millisecond dropped his guard, I might be able to do something. Like whimper pathetically and then fall over. Or break free. And then I was sure I could use his true name. It was just so hard to think. I could send a witch message to anyone not right next to me while I was bound. I couldn’t form the sounds of Maeve’s power chant. What could I do? What was I capable of? Starting fires was something I was good at—but everything around me seemed damp. Could I set wet leaves on fire?
Ciaran was talking, pacing back and forth, earnestly trying to convince me why black equaled white. My eyes followed him, but he didn’t look at me much: he was sure I couldn’t break free.
Fire. Heat. Heat plus dampness... made steam. Steam could be powerful. Most heavy machinery used to be run on steam. Radiators.
Then it came to me. With great effort, I slowly slid my gaze past Ciaran to the trunk of a pine tree. Heat, I thought. Heat and water. Heat. Fire. I imagined sparks, tiny flames flickering into being, fire warming bark, running beneath it.
Ciaran didn’t notice the very faint ribbon of steam coming from the tree behind him. His soliloquy continued, as if he thought that if he talked long enough, I would finally be convinced.
Heat, building beneath the pine bark. Pressure building. Cells expanding. Tiny fissures splitting wood fibers. The water in every cell evaporating, turning to steam. I lost myself in it, imagining that I could see the bark swelling, feel the fibers splitting, feel the pressure building.
Crack!
With the force of a small explosion, chunks of pine bark flew outward, hitting Ciaran, almost hitting me. He whirled, his hand outstretched, ready to deflect an attack, but it took him several seconds to see where the sound had come from. Seconds in which his concentration was weakened. In those precious seconds I made a tremendous effort and managed to work my right arm. Summoning every bit of power in me, I raised my voice to say his true name. He whirled as the notes began, my voice sounding dull and leaden under the binding spell. My right hand clumsily sketched runes in the air, and with a last breath I managed to complete it—his true name, a color and song and rune all at once. He hissed something at me, but I held up my hand and deflected it.
Teeth gritted, I said, “Take off the binding spell.”
The look of fury and horror on his face was frightening, even though I knew I had power over him.
“Take it off!”
His arm raised against his will, and words fell from his lips. In moments I could take deep breaths, and when the spell dissolved, I fell to my hands and knees.
“Morgan, don’t make this kind of mistake,” Ciaran said softly. But he wasn’t in control anymore.
“Be quiet,” I panted, slowly standing up, rubbing feeling back into my arms and legs. The cold of the night air made me shake: I had been motionless for too long.
I looked at him, my biological father, an extremely powerful witch whom I had both reluctantly admired and truly feared. He had put a binding spell on me! He had planned to kill me, kill my friends, my family. I let my contempt show in my face as I looked at him.
“Ciaran of Amyranth,” I said, my lungs still feeling stiff, my tongue thick, “I have power over you. I have your true name, and you are bidden to do my will.” I was trying to remember the exact phrasing from various witch texts. His eyes flashed, but he stood quietly before me. “You will never hurt me again,” I said strongly. I wasn’t sure exactly how a true name worked—but I felt that pretty much anything I said went. “Do you understand?”
His lips were pressed tightly together.
“Say it,” I said, feeling unreal, giving him orders.
“I will never hurt you again.” It looked like the words were costing him.
With quick, efficient motions I put a binding spell on him, just to be safe. He stood in the darkness like a handsome mannequin, but fire was burning in his eyes and his gaze never left me. “I have your true name,” I said again for good measure. “You have no power.”
I backed away from him, feeling exhausted. My watch said 2:26 A.M. Pressing one hand against my temple, keeping my eyes open, I sent out a witch message as strongly as I knew how. Hunter. Power sink. Now. Bring your dad. I need you.
10. Alisa
“The secret of a successful dark wave is in creating its limitations. Be clear in your intent, unemotional. Act because of a calm, logical decision—not out of anger or revenge.”
— Ciaran MacEwan, Scotland, 2000
“No, no—it’s nal nithrac, not nal bithdarc,” Mr. Niall said, not bothering to hide his irritation.
I gritted my teeth. “Isn’t there a nal bithdarc in there somewhere?”
“There’s a bith dearc,” Hunter reminded me.“But not till a bit later.”
I let out a breath and sank down onto the wooden floor in front of the fireplace. It was way freaking late, I was exhausted, I had a headache, and I was kind of hungry. “Is there any cake left?” I asked.
Hunter had made a killer pound cake yesterday, and we’d all been wolfing it down in between their teaching me this wretched horrible spiteful spell. Without a word Hunter went into the kitchen and came back with a slab of cake on a plate. I picked it up with my fingers and took a bite.
Mr. Niall sat on the floor next to me and held his hands out to the fire. He looked like death warmed over, gray skinned and hollow eyed. Starting last Tuesday night, he’d been working with me on the spell to fight the dark wave. Dad and Hilary thought I was working on my science project with Mary K. I had told Dad I’d be home late, and he agreed. Another sign of Hilary’s turning my dad crazy: a year ago he’d never have let me stay out past his bedtime.
I looked at my watch: past midnight. And I had to go to school tomorrow. Thank God tomorrow was Friday. I could sleepwalk through classes, then go home and crash. Then come here and not have to worry about getting up the next morning.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to spray crumbs. “This is all new to me.”
“I know,” said Mr. Niall, rubbing the back of his head. “And this is a hard one. Most witches start with spells to keep flies away, things like that.”
“Keep flies away,” I mused. “I could probably handle something like that.”
Hunter gave a dry laugh, then headed back to the kitchen when the teakettle began whistling.